


No Going Back

by MoonbeamMadness



Series: No Going Back [1]
Category: A Court of Thorns and Roses Series - Sarah J. Maas
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Cliffhangers, F/M, Gen, Other, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-05
Updated: 2020-06-05
Packaged: 2021-03-03 22:07:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 34
Words: 60,625
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24552856
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MoonbeamMadness/pseuds/MoonbeamMadness
Summary: Nesta has been exiled to the Illyrian mountains by her sister and brother-in-law. It's the last thing she wants, but it might be just what she needs.
Relationships: Elain Archeron/Azriel, Feyre Archeron/Rhysand, Nesta Archeron/Cassian
Series: No Going Back [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1782382
Comments: 11
Kudos: 100





	1. Chapter 1

Nesta had grown used to the cold. Long before she’d chosen to barricade herself away in Velaris she’d known that icy bite at her toes, watching as the fire dwindled, the bone deep chill from the bitter winds that cut through the walls of their old, run down home and left her shaking under thin sheets. She’d known a different kind of hardship to Feyre. But unlike her sister, she’d embraced her suffering. Feyre had been the one always struggling against it and look what it wrought on them. She’d forgotten what it was like to have your world taken from you. Your beliefs flipped upside down. Feyre’s world had made Elain a killer. Changed them all. Twisted them till they were unrecognisable. Elain, the souring maid with bloody hands. Nesta… Nesta the drunken whore. A poisonous shell to an otherworldly terror.

She wrapped her cloak tighter and silently prayed Cassian would be sleeping when her teeth started clattering. But that was a fools hope. He rarely slept these days - too deep into his home territory. Assailed by old memories that still seemed to haunt him. Faceless, formless spectors threatening him from the dark. Still. _Still._ To be Fae… was it really immortality, or was it simply to live until the accumulated weight of your centuries of trauma crushed you? Nesta didn’t know, but would have believed it were true. She felt it. Inside her a heavy, oppressive feeling that had been lessoned by the open forests and clear skies, but still pushed down on her, even so far from her old life.

The darkened sky thundered in the distance and Nesta blinked stupidly in its direction. Cursing another night of rain. Cassian wouldn’t light a fire out here in the open. It would deter the animals but attract far worse he’d said and Nesta trusted him on that. These were terrifying forests she could admit to herself. Everything, even the roots of the trees were a danger. So she sat across from him, in the dirt, on the still damp bed roll that had begun to smell of mold because he’d told her to leave it to dry after the unexpected rains and simply to annoy him, Nesta had rolled it straight back up and stuffed it away. It would likely need to be burned if it got any worse.

She watched Cassian’s wings curl in on him a little tighter and it was repulsive the way she took pleasure in knowing he was cold, too. A desperate part of her wanted nothing more than to press herself to him. Feel the heat she knew would still be radiating despite the frigid temperatures. But if she wasn’t here she’d be back in Velaris. Probably drunk at this point. Likely already having picked her next target from the sea of fools who wouldn’t know any better and that thought didn’t fill her with any longing. Suffer here. Suffer there. What did it matter?

Nesta though had grown to miss sex. The control- the pleasure, it was a balm on the hateful venomous fire hollowing her out. Temporary though it was, it was something. Something she could feel when she felt nothing else. Amren had seemed to understand that, but that flame in Nesta had eventually claimed that bridge, too.

The summer solstice had been the cause of her last great rift with the inner circle of the Night Court. She hadn’t been told she could bring someone with her. But Amren never asked about Varian, neither had Mor when she chose to turn up with a male on one arm and a female on the other, looking like a cat that had just caught several large mice.

Of course, Nesta drunkenly storming into proceedings, knocking Amren into the water fountain while her toy - picked up during her last round of drinks at the tavern, proceeded to be sick on the banquet table - none of that had been in the cards that night and likely fell outside the realms of unexpected. She’d wanted to simply ensure they didn’t ask her again. Make a little scene. Weather the argument that followed. A success, to be sure, but she’d gone too far and she knew it. Amren had been a _terrifying_ sight rising from the water, and the harshness to the way she snarled _“drunken whore”_ at Nesta had cut deeply enough to linger.

Rhysand hadn’t cared about the food or the scene. But Feyre leaving the party in tears he made clear he wouldn’t forgive. Nesta could sense the resentment. And maybe he was right to hate her. Maybe Feyre cried too much that night. Maybe she’d lost something more than her hope for her sister. The hope that Nesta would be someone good - the hope Nesta had been trying to smother in all of them for the better part of a year.

She hadn’t realised she’d fallen asleep till she woke up again, her last thoughts of her unfortunate timing for self-sabotage drowned by pain and the feeling of frost on her nose.

Nesta couldn’t see the sky anymore. Wherever she was, it was darker than simple night. Colder than an autumn storm. The layers of blankets covering her up to her chin were stiff with the ice and her body felt like stone. The sound of frustrated growls were the only things she could hear over the blizzard howling just out of sight, beyond the dark.

Lips trembling she turned to find the source of the noise and squinting, she made out Cassian huddled barely a few feet from her over some wood, grieves and gloves gone, rubbing his hands together. Rubbing like he were trying to force the feeling back into them. There was a sudden flash of red light and the tinder caught flame, illuminating the expanse and sending a wave of blissful warmth her direction. Cassian turned at the sigh that escaped her.

“Storm turned into a blizzard, this was the closest shelter,” He remarked off-handedly without turning, gesturing to the cave.

Nesta examined the rock for a moment, spying the entrance and the flurries beyond.

“You moved me here?”

“You were unconscious, not like you _walked,_ sweetheart,” He rasped.

Cassian’s tone was serious. Not a trace of the usual humour.

“I can’t feel…” Nesta almost said ‘feet’ but stopped at the realisation that she may have blurted out any number of things. Physical and mental. And it wouldn’t have been a lie.

Cassian crept down at her side and pulled her against him. Nesta tried to bat him away, squirming but he swatted her stiff clumsy slaps aside. When that seemed fruitless - she was too cold and her arms and hands impossibly weak, Nesta turned her head and bit him where she knew it would have given way to the material of his tunic, without the leather of his grieves protecting him.

Her teeth met bare flesh instead of material and sunk in. She felt him stiffen in pain around her, but not release. Felt the hiss first and then the growl rumble through her back as he grit through it. Felt heat fan her face. Though not from the small fire.

“If I’ve gotta be bitten to keep you alive, then so be it,” He snarled low, clutching her tighter. An edge to his voice that made her jaw go slack.

Nesta hadn’t bitten hard enough to break the skin but it would bruise and she was suddenly ashamed to know that. He would let her hurt him, physically hurt him, to keep her safe. A part of her hated him for that nobility.

Nesta’s struggling stopped but the tension in Cassian’s arms remained. Anger radiating from him.

“If you were anyone else…” He began to say, stopping part way through.

“You’d have still done the same.”

“Is _that_ what you think?” Cassian snarled at her.

“You’re saying you wouldn’t have done that for anyone else?”

“No… not _anyone,”_ He whispered, releasing his arms and moving away from her to toss another few twigs on the miserable fire.

Nesta sneered, sitting up. Affronted by the hapless sentiment. Then spotting the reason her teeth had met skin and not fabric.

Cassian’s chest was bare beneath the leathers. Paler than usual and freckled with goosebumps from the cold. She glanced down at her covers to see his tunic layered with the blankets. It was too thin to have done much for her. It couldn’t have made much of a difference amid the thicker woolen blankets. But Cassian had stripped himself of it anyway, anything to keep her alive.

And it was the sight of that, that finally, finally made her cry.

“Why?” Tears slipped out silently. _“Why?”_ She repeated.

Cassian kept his back to her as he answered. Wings trembling at the joints.

“Who fucking knows. Maybe I like torturing myself? You’d know all about that, wouldn’t you?” He cast her a quick accusing glare over his shoulder.

“So because I don’t want to live in my brother in-laws townhouse I’m torturing myself?” She scoffed, knowing it was truth regardless of how she tried to play it off.

“No. But when you refuse to light the fire in the middle of winter, when you starve yourself…” He paused to compose himself. “Listen, the day you start wanting people to hate you, you turn into the villain of your own personal horror story, sweetheart.”

“And what would you know about it?” She snapped, wiping at her face. Trying to scrub away all traces of vulnerability.

“Plenty, trust me. You think you’re the only one to go through anything shitty?” He cocked an eyebrow. “I fucked my way through every whore house, in every still standing city in Prythian after the first war. I drank…” He swallowed. “I drank till there wasn’t a tavern around that would take the coin. Till I was sure the person that had come out the other side wasn’t gonna die at the end of the next bottle,” He snorted. “You look at yourself in a mirror and see someone else. A monster undeserving of anything but war and pain and suffering, but you deserve a chance at something better. ”

Nesta was silent at that. Her thoughts now too muddled to straighten. She hated them, she hated them, she hated them.

But not like she hated herself.

“Rhysand is of the opinion I’m not worth it, what makes you right and him wrong?”

“He’s got his own demons, believe me. We drank and slept around. Him and Azriel had bloodier pursuits afterward,” Cassian absently rubbed his chin. “He doesn’t like the reminder.”

“Mine was bloody enough,” Nesta whispered under her breath absently, recalling that first night, the night she’d decided that immortality rendered such virtues inconsequential.

“Firsts are usually not that great, ” Cassian smirked at her.

“I’d foolishly thought that with age might come experience,” She said coolly. The heat had returned to her hands and her feet. From the look of Cassian, it seemed like she were stealing it directly from him.

“I’ve seen some of the escapees, Nes, that they didn’t have the skill or experience is not that surprising,” He turned again to openly laugh at her. “People tend to look a bit different in daylight when the alcohol wears off, right?”

He was openly mocking her, but not. He wasn’t chastising her for sleeping around, rather just the quality of her partners. Thinking back on it, when he’d followed her into her apartment the day Feyre sent her into exile, it had been her lack of clean bed linen he’d made fun of then. Amused that males would still risk a tumble with the most dangerous creature in Velaris. That they would be so drunk as to ignore the stench of a hundred other stains in that bed.

“I’ve noticed,” She said sullenly.

“Didn’t stop you, though.”

“Did it stop _you?”_

Cassian smiled at her rebuttal and she would have returned it if she didn’t notice the blue tint to his lips.

She slipped out from under the blankets and crawled to her feet, crouching beside him and throwing a blanket over his shoulders. As Cassian’s face seemed to drain of its usual superior and smug charm, Nesta settled in beside him.

“It didn’t stop me, no…” He whispered finally in answer. “… but, sometimes I wished it had. It was a long time before I realised that this was who I was now. That there was no going back.”

Nesta stared into the fire and repeated the words in her head.

_No going back._


	2. Chapter 2

Winter was already passing before they’d even crossed the border into what had been once Cassian’s homeland. Nesta hadn’t ever fathomed missing the snow till she was shin deep in cold, wet earth. Wading through the freezing, muddy rivers that were now streaming down into the valleys, drowning the wide planes in the lowlands. When Nesta saw forest again she was momentarily delighted, but she quickly discovered that the Illryian woods were nothing to celebrate. Thick, dense canopy blocked out almost all the light of day and the night stars - claustrophobic and strangled by a sea of treacherous vines unperturbed by the change of seasons. She could barely get one foot in front of the other without stumbling. Even with Cassian ahead hacking at them with a crude blade the march was infuriatingly slow.

It was no wonder the Illyrians had been gifted wings - there didn’t seem to be any other way to survive without them out here. Even the strongest of warriors could die in lands like these. Lost and choked by the plant life. Left to rot like the many dead creatures they’d passed, nothing more than browning bones amid the leaves.

Thorns cut at the hem of her gown, catching her muddy step as Nesta pushed forward, stumbling and cursing under her breath.

“Remind me why we aren’t just flying?” she growled to Cassian who absently, and infuriatingly seemed occupied by other thoughts. She’d asked the question before to an array of unsatisfactory answers. But this time, Cassian answered.

“ _Experience_.” He rumbled, his voice low before cautious eyes darted to the skies through a gap in the canopy.

“I had no idea being an insufferable ass had many uses,” Nesta snapped.

She felt a smile pull at her lips to see him stop - just moment’s pause before he continued, hacking at the vines threatening to trap his wings.

“The last rebellion was long before Rhys was highlord. His father was strong - gets you places with my people when diplomacy fails,” He snorted back to her. “But there are limits. And if enough prominent camps rally against you, the rest just follow regardless of who’s leading them or why. They’ll follow the strength.”

There was no effort made to conceal the deathly timber of his voice. The next words hollowing Nesta out like a cold wind.

“The skies aren’t safe. And if they’re going to shoot at us flying, they’ll hit you before they hit me.”

Blood cold, Nesta swallowed her terror. Anger and rage bubbling up again just below.

“And we’re just walking into this?” Her voice was shrill. “Into almost certain death?”

“Thought you wanted to die.” Cassian remarked coolly.

A weight settled at the pit of her stomach.

She’d wanted to suffer. Not die. Weeks and months out here had let her come to terms with that at least. He turned and caught her eye. Watched her thoughts on the matter cycle round her skull. A hurricane of feeling and manic what-ifs.

“Don’t worry. There’s no such thing as a painless Illyrian execution.”

Nesta growled low at the smile that tugged at his upper lip. The tremble of muscle just below the skin and lack of breath that told her he’d likely held back a laugh.

“If I die, it won’t be in one of your filthy camps.” Nesta spat at him. Cursing silently at how easily he riled her. How quick her mood had been souring of late. Victim to the relentless marching - the hunger and freezing temperatures.

She’d truly known nothing of cold.

“I was born in that filth, Nesta. Believe me I have no intention of dying in it, too.” he said. Voice raw and breaking.

Her cheeks flushed with a mixture of emotion she was quickly identifying as guilt laced with the all too familiar feeling of shame. She wanted to claw at the skin on her face in penance for her sins. Sink her nails into her flesh hard enough to tear. Wanted to feel blood on her hands. Her own blood.

Instead Nesta simply looked away. Hiding her red cheeks from him. Not knowing if he sensed her inner turmoil. He seemed to pick up on everything else. It wouldn’t have surprised her if he felt the heat of her skin on his back. It was certainly still cold enough.

Thunder cracked above them but she said nothing. There was little shock or surprise in the rain that started to fall on them both, dripping through the leaves, though Cassian let forth his own string of Illyrian curses. The further into the vast territories you travelled the worse the weather seemed to get. To Nesta, it was no longer worth complaining about. Especially with the knowledge of just how much danger awaited them.

Something more terrible than drowning.

“If your people can’t be trusted. Then where exactly are we going, Cassian?” Nesta hollered over the deafening patter of rain on the leaves above them.

“There are camps that’ll likely turn first. Those always looking for reasons. Then there are others,” He wiped his eyes of water. “smaller ones not looking for any trouble,” Cassian elaborated in his own particularly infuriating way without really giving her any actual, useful information, she noted.

Nesta caught his arm, avoiding his wings, stopping him in his tracks.

“ _Where are we going?”_

He pulled back like she’d burned him. Ripping his arm away with a warning snarl.

“If you want to go back, then go,” he ground out, flinging a hand back the way they’d come, mouth twisting with a menacing grimace Nesta found moderately frightening. Never had Cassian ever made her feel uncomfortable or scared. But what she saw on his face then shook her.

“Cassian?” She said his name aloud and the sound of her voice pulled him back from whatever darkness had claimed him. The sound of his name on her lips, a prayer to some higher power of sanity.

Cassian turned away to look ahead, his face pale. Grave.

“We’re almost there _.”_

He didn’t answer her question.

Nesta was unprepared for the raucous noises of the camp they clumsily stumbled out into. Drenched. Filthy. Exhausted. But you’d never have told them apart from the faces that greeted them. Nesta had seen some of Cassian’s warriors just outside of Velaris when the lords visited, but hadn’t expected something so vastly different out here. The disorder and chaos. Drunken males fought in the muck on the street, kicking away the all-too-thin children digging in the dirt for coins or whatever might have fallen from their pockets in the fray, while others just watched, laughing and taking bets from between the old and crooked, run down buildings. The air stank. Not even the rain still falling seemed to wash away the rank odour of stale booze and old vomit. Of faeces and sweat. Of other things Nesta had become all too familiar with.

“They aren’t all like this,” Were Cassian’s offered, whispered words - as little comfort as they were to Nesta. Spoken as much to console himself, as her.

It didn’t matter. This was enough to haunt her. She searched the drawn faces and dirty hands. Recognising the misery. Knowing deeply the scars of these peoples poverty. This town was nothing more than a slum. And at first glance, a lawless slum. _Where exactly were the guards_? Nesta noticed quickly that females kept out of direct sight, darting through doorways and behind carts to avoid unwelcome eyes. Hoods up and heads down. And those Nesta did spy clearly were busy carrying goods or tools, backs bent and wings bound tightly at their backs. Broken. Submissive. She stood mouth agape at the horrifying spectacle it all made.

Then the denizens started to take notice of the two travellers that had emerged onto their streets. Few were ignorant to the seven red gleaming stones Cassian wore and what they meant. He spread his wings a little wider at the looks they threw his way before those gazes turned on her. Nesta kept her back straight and her face emotionless as males let their eyes traverse the length of her. Taking in her ragged clothes and thin frame and delivering their judgements. Whispering to those around them. Some leering openly.

When Cassian strode forward, she followed closely. Silent. Nesta Archeron was many a thing but not quite the fool. Or maybe it was the fear she’d swallowed, stealing her tongue - stealing the very immediate questions from her lips.

The sea of faces parted for them as Cassian waltzed through with all the airs of a King. Back straight and his previously tired gait masked with a confident stride.

Someone spat at the ground behind them but he didn’t turn to look or make any indication that he’d seen. Nesta however turned and glared at the male with small, brutally scarred wings and broken teeth, and she smiled in such a way as to watch him flinch. The whispering grew more bold. Loud enough that she caught the word ‘witch’ uttered more than once.

They’d called her that before and she wondered what it was that they felt in her presence that labeled her something so fearsome.

Nesta didn’t care what it was, she used it, bared her teeth at any who even considered _breathing_ in Cassian’s direction. Taking note as the circle of dangerous faces behind them closed back up, cutting off all escape.

“Lord Commander,” A voice seemed to exclaim from the crowd and Nesta watched with wonder as a male who could have been Cassian’s brother, stride forward.

“It’s been a long time, boy,” He wiped at his stubbled jaw. It was clear he was surprised by the interlopers but it was impossible to gauge his feelings beyond that. The almost endearment he’d used for Cassian, choked her as she took them both in - took in their resemblance.

Nesta had known that Cassian had grown up a bastard. Unclaimed and orphaned. The stigma and hardships that it had caused him. He never really spoke about his blood family - save for the occasional drunken reminiscing about his mother. So it was no wonder why it had never ever occurred to her that in the long years that followed his birth, that Cassian had actually discovered the male that had fathered him. Though, seeing the likeness, it wouldn’t have been hard. They looked so much alike it was impossible not to see once you noticed. The shape of the jaw and nose. The stance. But Cassian was taller by a few inches and had a fuller face, and to Nesta’s revulsion, cleaner teeth.

The most jarring thing was how close in age they appeared. The curse of youth and long life when you look no older than your own grown children.

“I haven’t been a boy for five centuries, Darius,” Cassian said tightly, offering an outstretched hand that his father gripped at the elbow.

The peace was uneasy as the males eyes flickered away from Cassian almost immediately, locking on her.

“Rare we see the High fae so far from their soft beds,” He crooned, far from pleasantly to her. She didn’t miss the threat in his eyes or the distain in his tone. Didn’t fail to see that she fell with all the other females here - down below him and the other males. Regardless of the fact that she was High fae now.

But then Cassian was there to fill the space between them - wings stretching, shielding her from his father’s sight. The camp Lord almost would have had to lean to the side to make eye contact with her. Circumventing Cassian’s still comparatively impressive size.

Nesta’s mouth twisted into something ugly as she stepped to the side and around Cassian, her nostrils widening as she beheld his father. The stench of alcohol, and worse, festering on his breath. The slouch of his wings where Cassian held his high. The soft muscle, dulled by laziness. Only the clever gleam in their eyes was truly the same. Only that seemed undiminished by whatever he’d spent his long existence here doing.

“Believe me, it’s not by choice. I’d choose to be somewhere there was soap,” Was Nesta’s only answer. Delivered as icily as she could muster. Composed and superior. Cassian seemed to relax ever so slightly though his father huffed.

“A female should be grateful when a lord deigns to grace them with interest,” Cassian didn’t respond to father’s remark, or at the sneer he threw Nesta’s way, unused to general disrespect.

To her credit, Nesta stood to full height, never once wavering, and after a terse moment the male snorted, slapping Cassian on the arm with some sentiment Nesta couldn’t quite identify - approval perhaps - and Cassian grunted in reply.

“This one would cut your balls off and scold you for the time it took her to do it. Don’t waste your time with threats or otherwise,” he deadpanned.

“I have no intention of touching _anyone’s_ balls,” She said loudly before rasping under her breath. “Certainly not this one’s” She threw him a look that made Cassian want to laugh. His father regarded her closer. His expression calculating.

“The spring rains make mud an inescapable inevitability _, my Lady_!” He mocked, openly eyeing the frayed edges of her damp cloak and ripped skirt.

“Yes, well, I at least have an excuse for my appearance.”

Her eyebrow climbed a little, daring him for a response but he simply laughed. Enjoying the banter.

“A sharp little tongue in this one. Not all Lords would be quite so amused, however.”

He looked Cassian’s way with a cautious eye. Cassian cleared his throat.

“This is _Estara_ , one of the highlady’s closest attendants,” Cassian extended a hand, gesturing to Nesta who wisely kept her mouth shut. Knowing better than to contradict him. That he would give her a false name meant he likely didn’t entirely trust his father with her real one.

“ _Tara_ , this is Lord Darius,” Cassian said with a smile in his voice feeling pleased by his own cunning. A welcome upswing to his foul mood, but Nesta was unimpressed by her new nickname.

She barely gave a slight nodding of the head to the camp lord. Not a bow by any standards.

“What do I owe for the honour of such a visit?” Lord Darius asked.

“Just passing through on the way to the city,” Cassian rumbled offhandedly.

“You must be expecting trouble if you’re trudging through the spring downpours on foot,” Darius mused, eyebrow raised. Nesta felt more than witnessed Cassian stiffen. Their likeness was in more than just appearance it seemed. His father was just as calculating.

“I’d prefer that to be true,” Cassian lied brazenly to his father with an easy chuckle. “It’s been far too quiet since Hybern. No…” he breathed out a tired, frustrated breath. An honest sentiment. “I’m to escort her to the temple and apparently hacking our way through the muck like morons is preferable to the alternatives. Can’t say I’m complaining about not having to carry her, bit of wind and she shrieks like an animal.”

His father laughed but didn’t comment, seeming to understand that. High fae were generally thought of as being overly fragile - more concerned with comfort than function.

Hated though he might have been, even by such a low class of Illyrian - a low camp - Cassian still had power. He was an image of strength and these males were weak. They did nothing more than cast him disapproving looks as his father led them to a small house on the far outskirts of the town, in sight of his own, casting one more curious side glance Nesta’s way before leaving them to their own devices. Almost happy in the knowledge they’d be leaving soon. More than likely so he could return to his drinking and whoring in peace. Or whatever he did in the camp when undisturbed.

Nesta shirked her cloak and peeled herself out of the coat beneath. If it weren’t soaked through it would have been stiff with dirt. It stank. It stank in ways she’d failed to notice out in the wilds, but was oh so evident now that it was contained within four walls and competing with the scent of pine and berries.

The guest accommodations for visiting lords and other higher cast Illyrians was really no much bigger than her old family cabin, yet surprisingly better maintained than she’d expected having seen the rest of their camp. The furniture was new. Walls freshly painted a duck shell green that complemented the dark polished wood of the floors and stairs. It was….nice. And Nesta almost hated to admit that. Even more so to admit that even the prospect of a bath - normally something that left her anxious - now left her giddy with excitement. She would welcome the water for once, having almost forgotten what it was to be clean.

“Should I be grateful or worried they didn’t try to kill us the moment they saw us?”

Nesta asked, running a finger down the kitchen table satisfied that it was clean. Cassian knew better. Had seen and smelled her home. Knew it would take more than dust for this place to fall short of her recent standards.

“Both….I think. I’m just grateful that none of the camp lords give enough of a shit about this dump to bother destroying it,” Cassian said running his hands through his hair. This land was of little value. Certainly not a threat. When the other Lords sent their armies against their wayward neighbours, places like these would be left to last.

“I’m not sure there’d be that much of a difference. Perhaps there’d even be an improvement.” Nesta chirped.

Cassian turned sharply to her. Setting down the mug he’d been inspecting.

“I know plenty of honorable warriors that called this place home.” His voice quaked. Memory and grief warring with the common sense that told him not to rise to Nesta’s obvious baiting.

“Things change,” Nesta fired back. “And those women… _females_ ,” She swiftly corrected herself. “That _didn’t_ happen overnight.”

She’d seen them in the town. Seen enough to known that some of the broken ones were old. Older than Cassian perhaps, and the death of ones spirit was a long, violent affair.

“Of course not. Nesta, its been hundreds of years.”

“Maybe longer?”

“Rhys outlawed a lot….but the further you move into Illyria, the more those laws become as worthless as the paper he printed them on. These people fight for him, but he does _not_ rule them.” Cassian fired back defensively. Even Nesta knew that placing any kind of blame at her brother in-law’s feet was unfair, but what had they done for these people since their rise to power? Pretty much the same thing that her Human Queens had for their subjects.

 _Nothing_.

It was no wonder there was unrest - resentment among the Illyrian people. They fought and died for a society that treated them like disposable, violent animals - for a highlord that seemed to have given up trying to right their injustices. Complacent to a system that nurtured their worst instincts and used them.

Too busy building palaces while children fought in the streets for food.

“All the females wings are bound,” she said calmly, her eyes locking with his, briefly flickering over his shoulders where his wings visibly shuddered.

“Sometimes they cut too deep…and they lose the strength to lift them off the ground.” His voice was a breath that forced all the air out of the room. Cassian could see her reaction almost before she slapped the mug off the table. Sending wet shards scattering across the kitchen floor.

“ _Hypocrites!”_ She shouted at him, stepping closer and squaring her far smaller size up against his towering bulk. Baring teeth _._ “Protecting your precious city while this and _worse_ goes on just beyond the walls?”

Nesta may have been cold and tired, but nothing could quench the fire in her gut when she saw that her words where hitting their mark. “You sent your own people to _die_ against Hybern,” she whispered, satisfied at the way his wings fell and his body sagged.

“My people are born to die.” Cassian said somberly.

He opened his satchel and tossed a bag of coins at her feet. “Even if you go out there and give every male, female and child their own weight in gold, give them _food_ , it’s not going to be enough. Never will be. There are hundreds of small places like this outside of the cities and not one of them is going to want some stuck up fae _bitch_ …” Nesta flinched at that and Cassian lowered his voice, softened his tone. “…strolling in, telling them they need to change. They need to want to do that themselves,” A realisation slowly seemed to creep into his eyes. Sudden and unwelcome understanding. “Sometimes we need to face facts,” He turned back to the door, no longer talking about the camp. “There’s only one person responsible for your happiness Nesta, and it’s not me.”

And then he left her alone, disappearing back out into the rain with a slam of a door that shook the contents of the kitchen cupboards.

The soft sobs in the kitchen were masked by the crack of thunder and lightning outside as Nesta sank to the floor, staring at the bag he’d left. In Velaris she wouldn’t have hesitated to take it all and spend it as she saw fit. Find a bar and drink herself stupid. But her fingers paused reaching for it, trembled slightly before she gave in, hefting it up to test its weight.

Cassian was right about one thing. You couldn’t _make_ someone change.


	3. Chapter 3

Cassian panicked when he returned and found both her and the money gone. It was a sizeable fortune in comparison to what this camp was likely used to seeing. Goods and wares were more common than coin, but the coin could get you further than any tanned hide.

And Nesta was wandering around outside in the mud, in an unfamiliar place filled with dangerous individuals that wouldn’t hesitate to slit her throat for a single coin out of that bag.

Cassian felt a kind of terror he hadn’t experienced in a long time. Shredding his insides more than the shot of liquor he’d just bought had. He tore into every room just to be sure he hadn’t missed her but the scent was sparse and already fading. She probably hadn’t spent more than a few minutes more in the house than he had after he left.

It had been growing dark when he’d left and the moon was hovering high above the treeline when he staggered back out into the night and tried to locate her scent, which wasn’t that hard given how ripe they both were, but still not as easy as it should have been, even in a place like this where a thousand other smells and rots assaulted his nose.

He didn’t run - running was a thing desperate people did. And if there was one thing he could not appear in this place, it was desperate.

Cassian hid the urgency and near tremor in his walk with large heavy steps that had his feet sliding about in the mud. People averted their eyes as he walked. Looked down or away instead of facing him. No one was willing to risk so much as a look now. Whatever could be said about his father - said about this horrible, terrible place - the people here feared their leader more than they did Cassian, and that was quite a revelation. A deeply unsettling one.

There was something so very ordinary - Human even about places like this. True, there was some magic here, but it was nothing special. Used for menial tasks instead of grand spells. Tanning skins. Boiling water. It was just a tool everyone used in some form or another.

Her scent led right to the closest bar. Thankfully more upmarket than some of the other ones Cassian had passed on his way back. He bit back a disbelieving laugh. In a sea of muck and shit, Nesta Archeron still found a tavern.

He took in a breath, nearly choking on the smell. Sex and ale and a lethal concoction of spirits brewed with fermented root native to these lands. A root so toxic in its raw form you couldn’t even handle it without gloves. Not that it was any less poisonous in a glass.

Cassian steeled himself for whatever came next, pausing at the door as still as a statue. So unmoving that the male that staggered out laughing was knocked into the dirt when he accidentally collided with him.

“Watch it!” The drunk gurgled from the ground before his eyes found focus enough to recognise Cassian, going wide.

Cassian stepped inside as the male scrambled away from him, out into the road, still on his knees, wings flapping with fear and panic.

A set of female hands reached for the front of Cassian’s shirt before he was more than a stride passed the archway. Cassian caught them before they touched him. His grip on the females wrists was firm but he made sure not to hurt her.

“Not tonight, sweetheart,” He rumbled softly though the hard look in his eyes conveyed all the dark haired female needed to know to go looking elsewhere for work.

Cassian barely registered her go, his eyes already fixed on the scowling face of Nesta, buried in the corner at a table with three males, a hand of cards spread between her lithe fingers and an already empty bottle at her elbow.

Nesta’s eyes had flickered up to him as he spoke. Still sober enough to pick out Cassian’s voice amidst the moaning upstairs and the raucous howls at the bar.

One of the males noticed her distraction and growled when he saw the source. He nudged one of the others with his arm, motioning behind to where Cassian was stalking up to the table.

“Looks like our game is at an end, _your majesty!”_ The male directly opposite her snorted.

“Thank the gods…” Another mumbled under his breath, pulling back his remaining stacks of coin and giving Cassian hardly a look before fleeing.

The remaining two gave overly friendly smiles, bowing, before slithering off to the bar leaving Nesta at an empty table, a sizeable fortune in front of her.

Cassian sat down.

“Are you genuinely mad or actually looking to die?” He asked. It was unbelievable how a female with Nesta’s intelligence and prudence would consistently find herself in such reckless scenarios. A walking contradiction.

“Neither,” She said plainly, sliding the coins quietly into a scrap of fabric that she tied and slipped down the front of her dress, between her breasts. Cassian had to make the conscious effort not to follow her hands with his eyes.

“We have money,” He growled.

“I was bored,” She said and Cassian scented the lie. She wasn’t drunk, not to her usual extent anyway, but she was inebriated enough for the mask to falter. For the indifference in her eyes to crack.

“You can be bored back at the house. Its not safe here and the price we pay for our warm welcome is attending the feast tomorrow,” He said standing and reaching for her hand. “I wouldn’t recommend a hangover.”

“I will not sit and eat with that pig,” Nesta snatched it away from Cassian, hissing as she knocked the empty bottle to the ground. The noise of it shattering was enough to draw more gazes than Cassian was comfortable with.

He saw the anger and hurt in her eyes before it was swallowed by the void.

“Believe me, I wouldn’t either if I had any choice on the matter. We’re still in the Night Court, but this _isn’t_ Velaris.”

He offered her his outstretched hand again and while she made no move to reach for him, she finally stood. Reluctantly accepting that it was time to leave.

The walk back was punctuated by the awkward silences that Nesta once revelled in. The kind that told her how uncomfortable she could make someone just with her presence. A kind of harmless, ordinary power that made her happy to have over others.

But she wasn’t happy. Cassian was radiating the kind of aura that told her the night was going to end worse than it had started and the thought sucked all the life and energy and soul from her. She no longer had the will to fight him. It was unfortunate that it seemed to be the only way she’d learned to communicate in this new world she’d been stolen into.

To his credit, he didn’t slam the door, but Nesta could see that that was going to mean nothing.

“Have you any idea what could have happened to you out there tonight?”

She’d been mentally preparing for anger and accusation. The hopeless, frustrated despair in his voice caught her off-guard.

“Better than most,” She fired back.

His wings sank a little on his shoulders. Sagging she hoped with relief rather than misery but it was difficult to distinguish.

He left her in silence and went to bed without eating. In the hollow of her stomach something clenched tightly. She balled her fists and bit down on the urge to scream. To destroy the house and the furniture and level this place. Under her feet the wood smoked, leaving two blackened food prints in her wake when she moved.

Nesta felt like poison. Seeping into everyone around her and destroying them from the inside out. Everything she touched just seemed to turn to shit.

She hadn’t been drunk enough the night before to equate the throbbing, shrieking pain in her skull the next morning as Nesta rolled off the couch and was sick on her way to meet the floor. She winced at the tendrils of blood in her vomit and was trying to work out how to get to her feet and to a source of clean, hot water when calloused hands scooped her up and began carrying her to the bathroom.

Cassian sat her on the floor without speaking.

“I can walk,” Nesta grumbled. “I’m not an invalid.”

“Keep telling yourself that and then try standing. Have fun getting out of those clothes without help.”

Then he closed the door on her leaving her alone with the biggest bathtub she’d ever seen, already filled with gently steaming hot water.

Nesta crawled to her knees and shook at the claws that raked through her insides. It was a new agony. Something she’d yet to experience and it pulled a soft cry passed her lips as she slipped her arms from her dress and made a valiant attempt at getting it over her head. It was stiff. Stuck to her in varying places and her skin pimpled and itched where cool air suddenly brushed it. Cassian had needn’t worried, no male, no matter how desperate would have stomached the stench to try anything unseemly. She was filthy.

Standing was like flying in a storm. Unsure of the ground or when you’d hit it, nauseous and dizzy. She gripped the sink and ran a wet soapy rag quickly over herself. Nesta couldn’t bring herself to look at the woman staring back from the mirror. She already knew she wouldn’t recognise her.

The water in the enormous stone bath gave her pause. Rippling over the dark stone like it were a fathomless pool of nothing. She reached in and touched the bottom to be sure of its depth - be sure that it didn’t drop out into oblivion, before slowly climbing into it.

Despite her quick rinse, a layer of scum still rose to the surface of the water as she scrubbed herself raw and as the dirt washed away, she found something flowing with it.

Nesta cried silently. A brief torrent of tears that fell quietly before exhaustion dried them and the water started leeching the pain from her starkly bony limbs.

Cassian was waiting for her when she emerged in a towel so big she was able to wrap herself in it twice over. There was some new, clean clothes and a small bowl of strange black berries.

“They’ll help with your stomach,” He said when he noticed her eyes examining them. “Fae have been known to die from two glasses of that shit you were drinking by the bottle.” He offered her the bowl and she plucked out several berries and swallowed them only briefly chewing. They had no flavour but her stomach seemed to settle the instant they landed.

“Is everything in this forsaken place out to murder me?”

“It shouldn’t bother when you’re trying so hard yourself,” He said, sitting down and swinging his feet up on the armrest of the couch.

He looked good. Like the last few weeks never happened. Like a bath and a nights rest were enough to undo all of that. It was no wonder his people were so feared in battle. When a days reprieve, a good meal and a nights sleep was all that a tired force needed to recuperate.

“Why are you up so early anyway?”

She realized she’d been staring at him beyond socially acceptable limits and the question came out at a nervously high pitch. She bit down hard on her tongue and let the pain ground her.

“I’m always up before the sun if I’ve nothing better to do in bed. Just habit,” Those wicked lips of his curled up at the corners as her addled mind finally got his meaning.

“Proudly at the top of the list of explanations I neither need nor asked for,” She said with narrowed eyes, her voice lowered.

Cassian shrugged. Not a trace of embarrassment.

“Sorry, lost my ‘Nesta’s social guidelines’ rulebook,” He huffed, exasperated. “I forgot, you don’t _talk_ about sex, just bed anything with a dick and a coin purse - anyone drunk enough to ignore the stench of that bed of yours.”

He watched her face flare red and laughed. Feeling anger was undoubtedly better than feeling nothing.

“Who I bed is none of your damnable business!”

“No, it’s not,” he whispered. “And I wish I didn’t care. I wish more than anything that I could make it stop. Make what I’m feeling _die.”_

Nesta’s face went slack and her hands fell to her sides, drained of heat - her skin drained of colour. She was suddenly supporting herself on the armrest of a chair.

“No you don’t,” her voice was small but Cassian heard nothing else. “The cost is too steep.”

“So is that what this all is?” He took her in.

“I don’t know,” she admitted.

And she meant it. The truth was that her father’s death still haunted her. That on the nights she went to sleep sober she dreamt of fire and blood and though she would never admit it, in the worst of her nightmares Cassian, broken and bleeding still crawled to her, crying out her name.

And then Cassian was standing over her, his hands outstretched. Reaching for her. An offer.

She’d hurt him. Over and over again. But he was still reaching for her. Even Nesta realised something would need to change.

A part of her delighted in the shock that swept his face when she put her hands in his but it faded when Cassian pulled her to her feet and wrapped his arms around her.

“Rhys didn’t send you with me to punish you,” Cassian whispered softly. “He sent you because you are one of the most powerful…one of the most terrifying and dangerous creatures in Prythian and he was worried about me.”

Something wet brushed her cheek and at the realisation that they were Cassian’s falling tears Nesta clenched her eyes shut.

He was impossibly warm. Like his blood was made of fire and it made her own hum. The same. They were the same. In too many ways to really count them all. Maybe that was why all this had been so difficult. Two stubborn, willful beings colliding at every point.

“Why are we really out here?” She asked, her face pressed against his chest. The scent of him permeating her skin.

“To prevent a war.”


	4. Chapter 4

The dress that had been left for Nesta to wear to dinner was beyond unseemly. Scraps of gold, lacy fabric tied tight with a belt, just enough to cover her thighs. It did not cover her breasts. It was so sheer, so light, it may as well have been see through _._ And the thought of having to wear it left her feeling cold and exposed. Dirty even. Vulnerable. And Nesta disliked many things, but nothing as much as feeling vulnerable.

She hadn’t actually seen who delivered it, having found it hanging downstairs that morning. Held together with flimsy threads, as thin as those she felt still binding her to Cassian. Nesta didn’t see nor care to think about who’d brought it. Stolen into the house with the dry firewood and fresh fruit she had no intention of eating. It had been a terrible nights sleep. One where she’d lain awake, too hot, tormented by the creaking of the unfamiliar house. Wishing they were back out in the woods where Cassian was only ever a few feet away and the monsters outside knew damn well better than to get too close. 

She’d grown far too accustomed to hard ground - her legs and back ached from the soft bed.

“I’m not wearing that,” Nesta hissed.

“You’ll insult him,” Cassian said, absently thumbing the letter attached to it. “Might not be smart this early into our trip to make an enemy of the first Lord we run into,” He unpinned the note attached to the dress and read it silently. A low growl rumbling up in his chest before he threw it to the floor. Nesta plucked it up.

“ _Enjoy it, boy. Don’t forget to share your toys,”_ She read the note aloud, ice in her voice. Between her fingertips the paper smoked and a moment later was consumed by blood red flames.

Cassian had the sense to look embarrassed. 

“Actually, on the other hand, _fuck_ him.”

“Your father is a pig,” Nesta said simply.

“And a drunk, and an _opportunist_ ,” Cassian admitted sitting down. “He abandoned my mother to the slums so he could marry the daughter of the Lord here,” he looked around, “don’t ask me what might have happened to her. Nothing _good_ I’m willing to bet.” Nesta’s face betrayed nothing but the acrid stench of her power remained. The anger.

“Fae children are rare I’m told. Is it the same for Illryians?”

“Yes.”

“And your father still abandoned you? A son?”

Cassian seemed reflective.

“ _Nesta_ … if he’d have known my mother was pregnant with me, he might have cut her throat instead of just abandoning her. Marrying into an Illyrian Lord’s house….you didn’t _dare_ bring that sort of baggage with you.”

“And now you expect me to sit down and break bread with this animal?”

“We need the seal of a Lord to get past the city gates,” he ran a hand through his hair. “I’m telling you all this now so you know to trust nothing he says to you. So you know to stay on guard, not to rise to his bait and _never_ leave yourself alone with him or _any_ of his people. Not even _females_ in his house. You stay at my side,” he took her hands in his again. She thought about ripping her hands from his but decided against it allowing the contact between them to linger. “Honor, family, none of it means _anything_ to him.”

“Is that why you didn’t give him my real name?” She finally drew her hands back from his.

“Yes.”

Admittedly Nesta had only heard snippets of stories about Cassian’s childhood. He’d experienced terrible hardship, and exile, but it may have been preferable to a life raised with this male. Azriel could attest to that.

“How soon can we leave without breaking some ridiculous Illyrian custom and signing our death warrants?” She asked eager to get out of this figurative snake pit. The actual snakes in the wilds were preferable.

“After the dinner. He’ll likely expect us to leave in the morning but we pack now and leave straight after he gives his seal. Tonight we do _not_ drink. We can leave under the high moon.”

He said ‘we’ but Nesta knew it was her he was directing that at.

“Alright, I’ll wear my leathers,” she affirmed.

“Which is a real pity, cause I was actually looking forward to seeing you in that dress,” Cassian smirked at her.

Nesta ripped the sheer gold cloth off the hanger on the door and threw it at him, the material snagging on his wings.

“If it’s a scantily clad _whore_ you’d like to see, there’s a full length mirror in my room and space for even an oversized bat to change,” Nesta snapped, but there was a softness in her mouth. Her glare lacked it’s usual venom.

“Leathers it is then, sweetheart,” Cassian grinned, patting his stomach. “I’m not the slim young male I once was, don’t think I’d do it justice,” he laughed standing and tossing the dress onto the couch.

It took Nesta a moment to realise she was smiling.

Despite the fact that they were situated perhaps only sixty yards from Lord Darius’ residence there was an escort waiting to bring them to his door. Nesta hadn’t noticed the day before, but there were also guards patrolling the street just outside. Cassian had been right to be concerned when she left alone. Undoubtedly she’d been followed. That nothing happened was a miracle.

A clean cut male with a darker complexion Nesta had only seen at the Summer court came to bring them to the Lord’s home. He bowed low to Cassian at the door and offered a salute she’d often seen his warriors give.

“My Lord Commander. It’s an honor.”

Cassian inclined his head and responded in kind. The face was familiar to him and he smiled. Recognising him.

“You served with us against Hybern?”

“I did,” he answered, his eyes flickering to Nesta who stood statuesque. “ _Many_ here did as well,” Nesta looked to Cassian in warning. “Please?” he gestured them to follow, knowing his message had been received.

He knew who she was. Nesta realised. If he’d fought with them he would have seen her, standing over the fallen King, his head held up for all to see.

And if _he_ knew, then likely others did as well including Cassian’s untrustworthy father. It seemed as if the warrior had been trying to tell them the same.

Cassian squeezed her hand as they followed their chaperone. A warning. A reassurance. A reminder that he was there with her. Always. No matter what came next.

They were led through the Lord’s grounds and into the grand hallway of his home where their guard instructed them to wait. Something silent passed between the guards which left Cassian visibly tense. Nesta focused her attention on anything else but the tight feeling growing in her chest. The ornate furniture, the colourful rugs. On the wall hung an enormous painting of a ruined castle in the mountains. It’s crumbling walls marred by soot. Banners torn and burned. The gates had fallen long before the artist ever put their brush to canvas.

Normally painters captured such things at their peak, when they were most beautiful, most impressive, yet this was immortalized in such a fashion could only have marked an important event.

When Darius finally appeared from one of the side rooms he’d been bathed, and was wearing a black shirt rimmed a similar gold to the dress he’d sent. Had Nesta worn his gift they’d have been a matching pair.

The thought made her stomach turn.

Cassian’s face - his body - was completely unreadable but Nesta _felt_ his anger as if it were her own. She was a piece of meat to his father. Something to be enjoyed. And used. A toy in whatever game he intended to play.

The disappointment in Darius’ eyes when he seen what she was wearing gave quick way to irritability.

“I feel insulted you haven’t worn my gift, my lady,” he rasped, feigning hurt.

“Gift? Oh, it was addressed to Cassian, I thought it was for him” Nesta said smoothly.

There were snickers of laughter from the shadows and Cassian seemed to choke on his own. It was Nesta’s stone cold, dispassionate delivery that carried it.

“Come then, dinner is likely nearly ready,” his father bit out.

The large room was sparsely furnished and the one table sitting at it’s center was not filled with food. There where only two chairs.

Cassian’s eyes flashed to her in panicked warning as the doors slammed closed behind them, blocking their escape and a set of hard hands landed on her shoulders. Cold stung at her throat and she froze as several figures emerged to restrain Cassian. He looked to her and didn’t resist. Wetness trickled down her throat and chest, the smell of blood filling the air.

Darius stepped close to her and ran a finger up her throat, lightly tracing the path of the blood.

“My apologies, Lady Archeron, my people have issues with restraint. I would advise against doing anything more foolish.”

A flash of steel and Cassian was on his knees, his head bleeding from a gash at his hairline delivered by the heavy pummel of a sword.

“Don’t touch him!” Nesta snarled. Her teeth bared. There was power growing around her like a storm, at the corner of her vision she could see Cassian staring at her. She felt the knife at her throat waiver although Darius ignored still her, looking down as he hovered over Cassian.

“Did you really expect to just walk into the capital and strong arm the others when _I_ have brought you to your knees, _boy_? It would have been better that you died an infant than live to be that half-breed’s dog,”

And then Lord Darius spat on him.

Inside Nesta something began to crack, a barrier between her and the power she’d only just started to understand. A ward against catastrophy Amren had helped her erect before their relationship had soured. Low and terrible, a noise began rising in the room that made the hair on her arms stand on end, the knife that had been at her throat clattered to the ground and Darius finallt shifted his focus away from Cassian and she discovered that the sound was coming from her. Emanating from somewhere inside her chest.

Cassian didn’t waste a moment. No sooner was the knife at her throat gone, he was moving. The soldiers holding him cried out as he struck, knocking them aside.

Like she’d once been shown, Nesta drove a sharp elbow back until it met solid flesh and ducked under a second set of outstretched hands before being caught by the third; Darius’ angry, wild stare boring into hers. She could see more warriors had appeared to try and subdue Cassian and the neat furniture in the hallway had been reduced to splinters.

“To think, even out here we’ve heard stories about our High Lord’s whore of a new sister,” Darius rasped, breathlessly.

Nesta’s arms throbbed in pain where he held her. A bruising grip that he used to pull her close against him.

“You’re a little bonier than I like my females, but…” his leering mouth was now inches from her own and she recoiled from the tongue that crept out from between stained teeth.

Nesta braced against his chest and pushed but he didn’t move an inch. It could have been panic, or rage but Nesta drew in a breath and felt the barrier fall slightly. When she put her palms against his chest and pushed again, this time it was her magic that pushed him, burning through his expensive shirt.

Immediately he released her and fell back. Two handprints on his chest glowing red as his skin bubbled and his flesh smoked. He screamed and thrashed as the marks continued through him even though he no longer touched her. His shrieks turned to wet gurgles as the power passed through his organs, turning his insides to fiery liquid that seeped out his eyes and mouth and nose.

No one approached her. In fact, they backed away from Cassian, eyes still locked on her. Her hands were glowing red still. A flicker of her power let loose and resistant to return to confinement.

The guard that had escorted them there was the first one to drop to one knee, before Cassian.

“We are yours to command, my Lord,”


	5. Chapter 5

The rain fell in place of Cassian’s unshed tears. It soaked the ground with grief while his anger and unspoken curses streaked lightning across the sky. All the words he would never get to say to the man who left him and his mother to die in the slums. The Illyrians of course were all business regarding the death of their Lord. The darker skinned guard, Atros, had told Cassian in the moments afterward that Darius had been counselled against attacking them. That once Nesta’s identity had been revealed, that Darius was warned against any maneuvers. Too many of them had seen her power, her strength, she was a force of nature, they’d hushed between breaths, half awe and terror. And Cassian had thought it was luck that Nesta had wandered through the camp at night without trouble.

In the absence of any other leaders or Illyrians of high rank, the males had all bowed to Cassian despite his involvement in the death of the old Lord. Nesta didn’t blink an eye at how easy it was. Lord’s being killed and supplanted by their sons seemed believabley common.

Cassian stood in silence as the guards filtered out of the manor, no doubt to spread word about the changes in management. At no point did they touch Darius’ body, not even to cover it. A local custom, or fear that the magic that had eaten him alive would remain and consume them too, Nesta couldn’t be sure.

When they were alone, she pulled a curtain down from one of the windows and drapped it over the body that Cassian was trying his hardest not to look at. Darius’ eyes were wide and milky, his face fixed in such an unbridled symphony of pain that it made Nesta swallow. Amren had told her once that her emotions fuelled the magic inside her, and she couldn’t help but pity Darius’ last moments if that was truly the case, because what she’d been feeling had burned a hole straight though him.

“Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,”

Nesta huffed in annoyance. She knew that look. Knew that feeling. Like she knew without a shadow of a doubt that Cassian wasn’t fine. Was _far_ from fine. She stepped toward him, hand outstretched toward his arm only for him to pull it sharply back from her.

Like her touch burned.

Nesta felt a fresh pain well up inside of her at the rejection. Cassian had always been there, even when he’d tried not to be, when he’d tried to push her away, he still somehow wound up at her side.

“I’m sorry, Cassian,”

The words tumbled out feebly but they succeeded in drawing his eyes to her.

“We still need the seal,” and he left her, beginning his search.

The fact that she’d killed another, barely even registered with Nesta. She’d wanted him dead, she’d wanted him to suffer; to die afraid. He’d deserved all of that and more. But she’d murdered him in front of his son. Brutally. Horribly. Cassian himself could have levelled this town with his own power had he chosen to, but he didn’t. He let his father abuse him, spit on him. There were a hundred thousand things Nesta could have done that could have stopped Darius, but she’d chosen death and horror instead.

She’d wanted him dead.

While Cassian tore through the house like a storm looking for the seal that would grant them safe passage, Nesta follow her own less destructive path through the house. At the back of the kitchens, a trap door caught her eye. The worn ring handle whispering to her. Beckoning her closer.

The darkness below seemed to stretch into the infinite black, a bottomless void that made her stomach twist into knots as she stared into the basement.

“Hello?”

At the sound of a female voice, Illyrians materialized from the shadows, their faces looking up, eyes skewed against the light.

“Who are you?”

“I am Nesta Archeron,” she said simply, without title.

Sensing that they were in no danger, females and children began clambering from the trapdoor.

“Where is Lord Darius?” one of the older asked.

Nesta led them from the kitchens to the main hall where they’d been attacked, she crouched down and pulled back the curtain. There were no shrieks or screams. No wide eyes or panicked stares. One of the younger females, her wings miraculously intact, spat on the corpse and Nesta could only imagine all the ways in which he’d likely deserved it.

They weren’t dressed in rags like the others she’d seen on the streets - they were well fed and clean - but Nesta knew that the price for such basic necessities had likely been steep.

“The new Lord?”

“Is an obnoxious, infuriating fool,” Nesta looked down at the body in disgust. “But he is _nothing_ like his father. He will not harm you or see you harmed,”

They looked at each other uncertainly.

“The Lord _had_ no children?”

“None that he would admit to, no,”

Drawn by the noise, Cassian had appeared behind them. It was by the syphons he wore now, unconcealed that they recognized him as Lord General and it was his unmistakable likeness that they knew Nesta had been truthful.

They fell to their knees.

Cassian looked to Nesta, concerned. Afraid she’d say something.

“Please stand. You don’t owe me your prostration,” he sputtered quickly. Offering a hand to the oldest female who point blank refused to take it, rising slowly, but on her own.

“Do you have names, or did this pig take those from you too?”

No mental hardening could keep the anger from Nesta’s voice; still her tongue burned with the things she wanted to say.

“I am Mara,” the oldest inclined her head, “Tepia,” she gestured to her right to a female with greying wings, “and this is Masha,” she indicated the youngest. Her wings bound but otherwise unbroken. They were whole, Nesta realised. Not having been cut yet as per Illyrian male butchery. They’d simply been tied back. The girl still had the strength and coordination to lift them from the ground and unlike the others, her wings did not drag.

Cassian noticed her condition and he seemed to relax.

“You can stay, or you can go, it doesn’t matter to me,” and then he left, stepping over his father’s body, with the females confused and looking to Nesta for explanation.

“Males _are_ generally useless,” she said mockingly, though her tone made it more calloused than she intended. “Will you help me remove the body from the house?” Nesta asked them. It didn’t seem like they’d ever been _asked_ anything before and shock had stolen what remained of their voices at hearing a request and not a blunt order.

“What are we to do with it?”

“I’m not familiar with Illyrian funeral customs, how would you treat an Illyrian Lord who’d passed?” Nesta asked and Mara snapped her fingers to the other two females.

“I will have them gather wood for a fire,” she told Nesta.

“You will tell the males _outside_ that they will gather wood for the funeral fire and you are going to sit with me. I have questions,”

Tepia turned to the older female and whispered something along the lines of ‘she’s mad’ in Illyrian, though Nesta’s grasp of their native language was frayed at best and limited to insults and curses.

“Maybe I am, but I’m also dangerous, and if those guards have any issue with that order, they can take it up with Cassian and hope he doesn’t tell them to take it up with me,” Nesta rasped.

At one point in her Human life, Nesta managed a large estate. One with servants and guards, with livestock and land. She oversaw meetings of trade and local politics and she’d learned then how to wield money and power in such a way as to compensate for the fact that men were unaccustomed to being ordered round by a woman.

And she could incinerate flesh now with her fingertips, which she only fathomed gave her a little more leverage.

“I overheard complaints about food shortages while I was in town, the kitchen here however is stocked,”

“Camp traders came through offering premium coin for food and preserves during the Summer. Lord Darius didn’t leave us with much, it has been a harsh Winter,”

“Yes, I’m aware. The hills to the South of here were treacherous,” Nesta remembered the way the cold seeped into her bones. How Cassian had covered her with the shirt off his back to keep her warm. “Stores should be kept with a minimum stock at all times, there is a warehouse for what can be sold, and a warehouse for what must be kept for the town,”

“Why are you telling us?”

“Because that is how it will be going forward…and _you_ will be managing it,” Nesta said calmly.


	6. Chapter 6

Nesta didn’t blush as she pulled out the heavy coin bag she kept between her breasts and under a sheet of hardened leather. She held it aloft. A few of the solid gold coins from the bag would fill the warehouses twice over.

The females eyes widened.

“You would be so generous?”

“No. But I believe in paying debts and as I see it, the Illyrian people fought and died for the Night Court, they shouldn’t be left to rot in the aftermath,” though she could admit spending some more of Rhysand’s coin brought her no small satisfaction. Let her bankrupt the prick.

Shortly before noon a sober and dressed Cassian appeared at the pyre, looking as though he’d been hollowed out. Nesta couldn’t quite meet his eyes, fearful of what she’d find there. Unsure if she’d be able to weather the anger. When Mara handed him the torch, he set the body aflame without saying a word or glancing her way.

Nesta had spent most of the long night cleaning the body with Tepia; wiping down the wounds she’d made with pungent oils that stung her eyes and throat. Filling the space in his chest with sawdust and herbs. Making him whole, the female had said as she painted his lifeless wings with the signs of protection and his status, gold glyphs in intricate shapes Nesta didn’t recognize but found beautiful regardless. That was her penance. She could only regret the manner of his death - the spectacle.

For someone who’d commanded such fear, it seemed only a handful of his own warriors had turned up for the funeral of their Lord. And the ones that did arrive, didn’t seem all that saddened by his passing. As the sky darkened and the funeral flames died down, Nesta went back into the house where Cassian was waiting for her. Sitting on the couch looking pensive. Some colour having returned to his face.

“Feyre hits harder, you know.”

“Then go back to Velaris and let _her_ slap sense into you then,” Nesta sniped back at him. The corner of his mouth upturned slightly.

“Thank you… thank you for seeing to him. He…”

“ _I didn’t do it for him,_ ” she bit out, tired of Cassian dancing around the subject at hand. “I did it for _you_ , because it seems as well as carrying your own sins, you intended to carry some of his too… _and mine._ ”

She’d witnessed the relief on his face seeing Masha’s wings. As though his father’s crimes were his to bear.

“I’m sorry… for his death,” Nesta whispered. She’d said the words before but she wasn’t sure they’d reached him, or actually made up for anything she’d done.

“I put you in danger bringing you here. What happened was _my_ doing, you defended yourself.”

“No, I lost control.”

Cassian laughed darkly at her, glancing round the house.

“You didn’t even raise the temperature in the room, that’s a testimony to how much control you displayed.” He stared her down, willing her to argue it again. Nesta realized he probably thought she was considering it an accident when it was far from the truth and they both knew that.

“I _killed_ your father…”

“You killed a corrupt Illyrian Lord who threatened to _rape_ you,” Cassian hissed, his voice turning to gravelled ice. “You killed him… so _I_ didn’t have to kill my own father,” his voice broke. Shame. Relief. _Guilt_.

Silence descended over the room with only the fire crackling in the hearth and a space so wide between them it seemed just impossible to fill.

Cassian took a slow steadying breath

“I found his seal, along with a fortune in gold and gems for the people here. So we can leave at first light in the morning and be far from here before nightfall tomorrow.”

“No,” Nesta said flatly. There would be no more running, she’d sworn. “You say you’re here to prevent a war? To stop more bloodshed? Look around,” she gestured with her hands. “The cost of the war with Hybern was felt in every corner of Illyria. And what was lost was far more than any of them could afford. There are more places like this. Far too many.”

Nesta was smart enough to understand how the seeds of rebellion took root. How small the larger changes often started.

“The night court…”

“Doesn’t _care_ about these people, Cassian! Velaris was safe, Hybern was defeated. And these people who were on the verge of cataclysm before were edged just that little bit closer,”

“Nesta, if Illyria rises up in rebellion, Prythian will see war again. Thousands more will die.”

“Then _help_ them.”

“There’s thousands of years of tradition and rules that need to change to do that, Nesta,”

“So you do nothing? Is that it?”

She watched his jaw clench as he ground his teeth.

“You can’t make an entire people change because you don’t agree with how they live.”

“How they live benefits the Night Court and that is why it continues. Keep them fighting amongst themselves instead of organizing. Keep them superstitious and uneducated. It suits your High Lord when he needs his battles fought. That others will fight and die and he needn’t concern himself with happens to them after. There’s not enough oil in Illyria for all their dead.”

It was at that moment Cassian realized she’d not only seen to a pyre for his father, but dressed his body herself. Nesta could see his eyes turn glassy. Tears that would never fall. His wing relaxed slightly, Cassian hadn’t even realised Nesta had made him so defensive.

“Rhysand spent so much time trying to fix things, Nesta” he finally admitted. “He outlawed the binding of females wings, the sale of slaves. But beliefs endured. There we’re still Illyrians who genuinely believed that their ways were right.”

“Come with me,” Nesta stepped close enough that her legs brushed his knees and offered him her hand, gesturing for him to follow, leading him outside again.

Nesta walked with him to the end of the path and onto the main dirt road, looking to the other end of the town where torches were being lit. Cassian strained his eyes but only made out rough shapes of males moving boxes and crates. Dozens of them illuminating the night by torchlight while others worked.

“What is this?”

“Supplies, food, crafting materials from two of the nearest camps willing to trade. A few coins into the right hands,” The fabric of that ridiculous dress was made here. There are females who weaved high quality cloth. Males that couldn’t fight and were now crafting with wood and clay. “This place isn’t _poor,_ Cassian _,_ Darius made himself rich off of their broken backs. Like we were made safe with their blood - the people of Illyria are _angry,_ ” she squeezed his hand hoping the next words made it through centuries of stubbornness. “Being constantly conscripted for war, has been what has twisted your people, and if Rhysand wished to abolish slavery, he should have started by freeing his own."

Cassian released her hand.

“Rhysand has never kept a slave in his life, never _taken_ a slave.”

“He doesn’t have to, Cassian, he inherited _thousands_ from his father.”

It was true. They were a free people once, but it was so long ago that not even Cassian could honestly say if things were better or worse back then.

“Where’d you learn all this, a book?”

“No, the females of this house remember. I spoke with them. Listened to what they told me. They are punished for speaking out but there’s little to stop them listening.”

“And the males here, did they listen to them, too?

"They listened to _me_ , when I told them they would meet the same fate as Darius if they failed to comply.”

Cassian’s face twitched at the mention of his father but Nesta didn’t backtrack.

“Lady Archeron, you mean to tell me that after that high-horse speech you just made, you threatened them?”

“I merely presented them options. One of those options will see them and their families fed, their children off the streets and a semblance of order restored.”

Cassian laughed again but it was a softer, richer sound; Nesta felt something warm pass through her. Like a specter of a glorious future she’d thought long dead - thought she’d killed. It made her legs weak and her head spin. She stumbled a step and Cassian caught her before she fell to the dirt.


	7. Chapter 7

From the edge of a precipice overlooking misty oblivion, Nesta heard a voice calling to her, telling her to jump. It whispered gently. Like an ancient music; a lullaby to soothe her racing heart but she stood frozen to the spot, unable to look into what would assuredly be certain death below. She stared at her feet instead, the updraft catching her hair whipping her face with cold, damp strands as she watched the edge of the world crumble closer to her toes.

“ _Jump_ ,” the voice called to her. “ _Fly_ ,” it seemed to promise but Nesta had no wings. She could feel the air brush the skin on her back through her night dress. There was nothing there to hold her aloft if she fell.

“My Lady, come quickly."

Nesta bolted upright and almost rolled from the couch to the floor. The sun was beginning to rise outside casting the room in orange flame. She fumbled with a blanket trying to blink the sleep from her eyes and found Mara kneeling before her, her eyes wide.

“What’s happening?”

“Word of Darius’ death has spread… they have come to claim us.”

“Who has come to claim you?”

“The camps to the east and north, my Lady,”

Without their own Lord, they were now nothing more than territory up for the taking. Nesta threw herself from the couch with fire in her veins. Power billowing through her lungs and coiling in her muscles. She ran clumsy fingers through her hair, fixing the pins holding her hair in place. “Where’s Cassian?”

But Mara shrugged apologetically, “I do not know, my Lady. He must have left at some point in the night,” Panic intitially struck Nesta - just for a moment at the thought that he’d left with the seal. That he’d thought better of bringing her the rest of the way, or staying with her to help the people here, and left her ‘for her own safety’ as he’d likely say. The feeling of cold, familiar abandonment was _crushed_ by a white hot rage that made her hair stand on end. Nesta pulled the front door open so roughly, she almost took it clean from its hinges.

Outside, the streets were in chaos. Winged figures collided with the earth, falling from the sky, donned in armour and wielding swords. Syphons flaring for war. A naive part of herself had hoped to see Cassian outside, organising the males against the invaders but he was no where to be seen and the locals didn’t seem interested in resisting or fighting back despite the carnage that was being inflicted on them. They seemed, _expectant_. Like this was the natural order of things.

Something struck the ground behind Nesta eliciting a shriek from Mara, and when she turned, an Illyrian male almost a foot taller than Cassian was facing her. Dark eyes roved her small body within the comically loose leathers, from her face down her chest all the way to her legs and back up. Examining her like a piece of meat.

Cassian’s words came back to her. How he’d laughed at her definition of out of control.

Nesta took in a lung full of air, letting it fill her and put out a single hand. A command. And at a twitch of her fingertips, blood red flames erupted from the ground beneath the warriors feet. A breath. One single breath of power. Nesta exhaled through clenched teeth and the very earth exploded under him. He screamed, and it was the same nauseating scream Darius had made as his armour was incinerated.

All around her, Illyrians froze. Some hovering in mid air as the pillar of fire climbed high, towering above the denizens of the camp. Visible in every direction. A hungry, vicious power that consumed steel and flesh and bone.

At her side, Mara fell to her knees touching the ground at Nesta’s feet with her forehead and Darius’ warriors, previously indistinguishable from the invaders did the same. The noise and the clamour ground to a halt. A deathly silence.

“ _Now_ …” Nesta said, taking a deep, calming breath, concentrating on quenching the fire she’d set forth. “…which fool in charge?”

Nesta didn’t raise her voice but in the stillness it carried far enough for a burly male with a shaven head to hear her and make his presence known.

“You would dare call me a fool?”

“As I would call rain _wet._ ”

Nesta had a tongue of sharpened steel. She always had it. The male blanched momentarily before regaining his senses and barking out a laugh.

“So it’s a laughing fool then?” she mocked him.

He abruptly stopped. Nesta was not a female that could be shamed or embarrassed or pressured into cooperation. That he was looking to make an example of her now, told Nesta only that she’d already won.

“You wish to die?” He said, slowly drawing his sword.

Nesta’s eyes trailed the bloody edge of it - it still wet with innocent blood, and a growl began to bubble up in her chest.

“Once, perhaps, but _why should I give my enemies the satisfaction_ ,” she snarled through clenched teeth. Anger in every cell of her body, soul on fire. He roared in pain, his sword tumbling from his fingers and clattering to the earth, red hot molten steel quickly losing all shape and function. Sizzling and smoking on the wet ground.

Nesta didn’t need to touch them. She could kill them where they stood. The truth rang in her with clarity. She could kill them _all…_ but there would always be more. And the killing would never end.

“Leave,” she didn’t dare blink, lest they see a chink in her resolve. A flicker of doubt. “That is not a request."

He did his best to conceal the extent of his burned palm, but Nesta could see his closed fist tremble at his side.

“I do not take orders from common whores,” he spat.

“Consider it advice, instead,” Nesta calmed herself. “If you stay, you and all your warriors will die.”

“This is the Illyrian way,” he began, sensing that the winds had not shifted in his favor. “The Lord of this camp has departed and without a successor law demand that we take it under our wing,” he inclined his head. “For it’s protection,” he chimed, words ringing in Nesta’s ears like a bad joke.

“Does it look as though this place needs your protection?”

“This one fancies herself the new Lord!” He laughed at her again but not a male among his own people joined in the laughter. Nesta heard a hushed, barely audible curse - 'witch’ flittered between them.

“If that is what you need to hear to piss off,” Nesta stated. “Which camp are you from, the north or the east?”

“Ours is to the north,” his eyes fell on the blackened earth where the other male had died. Nesta took the implication.

“Then it appears there really is a camp without a Lord likely in need of your protection,” she offered. “Just not this one,”

Where there had been disregard for her before there was now something new in it’s place. The Lord’s expression replaced with one of interest. Nesta had seen such looks before. Males bested on one battleground seeking victory on another of their choosing. Usually the marriage bed.

“May I know the name of this camp’s new Lord?”

Behind him, his warriors had started taking to the skies, their wings beating a thunder as they careened east. Seeking easier opportunity.

“Nesta,” she allowed herself a wry smile.

“I am Michel, and we _will_ meet again Lord Archeron.”

And he was gone, vanished into the sky; a disappearing wisp of smoke against the clouds.

“My _Lord.”_

Warriors came to kneel at Nesta feet as did others from the camp. Whores on their knees next to the patrons they serviced, every soul pledging themselves to her, a wingless outsider. It didn’t seem to matter to them that she’d killed their last Lord, only that she’d then cleaned his body and sent him to the God’s with honor. More than he’d undoubtedly deserved. 

But Nesta’s demeanor was not one of victory, her body, her expression spoke of an untamable fury that was growing by the minute. When she spoke to them, it was simply to snarl.

“Where the _fuck_ is Cassian?”


	8. Chapter 8

The title rang in Nesta’s head like a ill timed bell. Yes, a part of her craved a purpose beyond the pity jobs that Rhysand had made for her, simply to keep Feyre happy and keep her out of his hair. But despite how much these people might have actually needed her. Needed what she now knew she could give them. Nesta wasn’t Illyrian. She was an outsider who’d wandered in, murdered their leader and defacto taken his place it seemed. For a people suspicious of outsiders and harboring general, deserved hatred for High Fae, Nesta felt the title of Lord like a heavy chain round her neck. It marked her only as another master. In Velaris the general sentiment to a certain degree was that Illyrians deserved the savagery of this kind of life, because afterall, were they not just savages themselves? But Nesta knew it wasn’t true.

They’d taken what they were and twisted it into something useful - something powerful - then punished them for the fact that their edges were now too jagged to touch. That when they tried, they were cut. She could relate far too much with that.

Cassian had said that Rhysand had tried. He’d made shiny laws, spat them at the Illyrian people from an absent throne. Told them they couldn’t keep slaves. That their females were equal - which to him obviously meant putting a sword in their hands; an equal opportunity to die fighting for _his_ court. He didn’t actually really roll up his sleeves and offer them the help they needed. He never fully _committed_. He might not have been able to with two cities full of potential spies and threats to watch out for. And that had been before Amarantha.

Nesta had shed the leathers back at the house and borrowed a tunic from Masha, even though it was designed for wings and cold spring air cut along her shoulders when the winds changed making her shiver.

There was blood under her nails that she couldn’t scrub away no matter how hard she tried but they’d been lucky. No one was dead. The purpose had not been necessarily to kill. So Nesta took up a needle and thread and in the absence of a more skilled healer, she led a small group of females - weaver’s and even some whores, and they stitched and bandaged wounds. With delicate needlework born of the Human gentry, Nesta took to closing the tiny tears left in the males wings while curious eyes watched. They were wounds designed to ground them, to prevent future retaliation. Like the males who bore them had chosen to resist in some way and been punished.

Nesta was decidedly more gentle with them than she’d needed to be.

“Lord,”

“I didn’t kill one tyrant with the aim of replacing him,” Nesta said tiredly.

“ _Nesta_ ,” Atros rolled the name strangely on his tongue as he said it, “We haven’t found the Lord General yet, but there are reports of a single Illyrian moving toward us from the direction of the city of Velaris,”

That was very likely Cassian. Though his reasoning for returning Nesta couldn’t fathom. Part of her feared something might have happened.

“Thank you,” she whispered as he left her.

“Eat this,” Tepia pushed a bowl of soup and bread into her hands and had the beautiful, glorious audacity to stand over her impatiently as Nesta ate it all.

It may have been the first time she’d been enthusiastic about food in a long while. And it was good. Despite everything that had happened, even the others could agree on that at least, as bowls like Nesta’s were passed around into eager hands. It was strange to her, seeing the same males she’d been playing cards with and would had otherwise considered low-lives- seeing them talking and eating like any of the rest.

Nesta knew what it was to want to escape, and everywhere she looked she saw a reflection of that. She’d been the low life at some taverns she reckoned with a half chuckle.

It was dark when Cassian barged into the Lord’s manner like a wild beast, nostrils flaring - there was still blood in the air. Like an aggravated bull he charged through the building, room by room until the sounds of voices dragged him to the office Lord Darius kept.

He’d clearly expected to be greeted by the sight of Nesta, but instead he found several males he didn’t recognize, the warrior Atros and Mara, all crammed into the space staring at a map unfurled across the desk.

“She’s in your room,” Mara said flatly.

Cassian didn’t even have the wherewithal to ask what they were all doing, or had been planning clearly from the looks of things.

Nesta waited for him, perched on the end of his bed, eyes still periodically drawn to her red rimmed nails, cursing how she could still easily pick up the stench of blood from her fingers.

“How is Rhysand?” she asked, no pretence would be accepted anymore.

“Tired,” Cassian said simply. His jaw was tight.

“I know the feeling,” Nesta’s smile was far from jovial. Had Nesta a mirror, her reflection likely would have frightened her. There was something dark in her mood this evening. “Today we defended the camp from _two_ simultaneous invasions,” she counted off her fingers, “I _slew_ another Lord, brokered some sort of truce with the surviving one, was proclaimed a Lord myself and gave that up in favor of a council, which is currently in the office redrawing the camp border maps having already decided to the females proposal of a school,” she took a long breath as Cassian processed that. “how was your vacation back to Velaris?”

“ _Nesta_ ,” he started, reaching for her hand but stopped short as it curled into a fist.

“I didn’t ask for excuses…”

“I’m not giving you any,” he bit back. “I didn’t go to Velaris. There’s a border town not far from here, he met me there,”

“He couldn’t read your mind from here, no?”

“It’s _not_ like that,”

Something about the way he seemed to deflate struck cords with her. There _was_ something wrong.

“What’s happened?” She grabbed his arm.

“They were going to have a child,” he whispered.

Nesta found her tongue going limp in her mouth at the tense in that. The push to avoid war, the constant pandering and simpering to Feyre’s every flippant mood. Even going so far as to ship her exhausting sister out of the city.

Feyre was pregnant. Had been pregnant.

Nesta’s profound and terrible joy turned to ash. They were pregnant. _Were_. But not now.

“I know you hate him…but he’s my _brother_ ,” Cassian hissed brokenly. “He needed me,”

“Feyre?

"Elain is with her. She’s healing,”

Nesta didn’t dare ask him something as stupid as if she were okay. She wouldn’t be and there was no point in asking.

“I want to go back,”

“ _He_ ….”

Nesta didn’t need him to say anything more. She knew.

“He doesn’t want me back there,” she finished for Cassian.

“Not yet, no. He’s worried about stress,”

And then there was the flare of anger again. Cassian took her hand.

“It’s the same reason he’s not with her right now. He says she blames herself and he thinks he reminds her of that,” Cassian took a seat beside Nesta. She could feel his hand settle at her back. The warmth from it. He was tired too.

Nesta could understand. Finally see Rhysand for what he actually was. A blundering fool who’d taken on so much he couldn’t possibly, effectively handle it all. A single leader spread across three Kingdoms. Of war and stars and nightmares. It was no wonder he’d split his throne with Feyre, he needed her.

“So how was your one day as an Illyrian Lord?” Cassian finally asked when the tension had fizzled out and they were sitting beside each other, amicably.

“I’ve had worse days,” Nesta admitted with a softer, pained smile.

Her sisters weren’t going to have to face another war. Nesta swore then that she would see to that. And it suddenly struck her, how easy it had been to forget about punishing herself, when she put her mind so completely to helping others.

There would be peace.

Or there would be a reckoning.


	9. Chapter 9

“This isn’t a war camp. So the fact that you managed to walk in here and straighten a few crooked arrows doesn’t mean a damn thing out there,”

She’d paced back and forth in the living room for hours like a wild cat, clawing information out of Cassian. All the things he hadn’t told her, afraid she wouldn’t be able to take it. That her mental state was too fragile. Forgetting that the only thing Nesta was always prepared for these days, was bad news. The only thing she was any good at was fighting it.

Nesta knew Cassian was correct of course. This place was its own slum. It had no laws. No intact ones anyway. So making changes to those non-existent rules had been relatively easy. The people had been broken as far as it were possible to break. There was no where to go but up.

“Tell me then, what exactly was your plan, Cassian, once you cheated your way to a seat at their table?”

Cassian was leaning against the fireplace, the firelight shining through the thin membrane of his wings, Nesta unable to stop her eyes tracing them; thread-like veins pulsing with his heartbeat.

“You mean, other than wave you around till they pissed themselves in terror?”

Nesta fired a pillow at his smug face that he didn’t bother blocking or dodging, he let it hit, smile never faltering, though he finally sat down on the couch where she followed, sinking into the cushioning.

“That is a _pathetic_ plan,” Nesta deadpanned.

“It’s worked before,” he countered.

“It won’t this time.”

“You’ve taken out two already, sweetheart. You think it’d really be that hard to frighten the rest into behaving?”

Nesta narrowed her eyes; both of those had been in self-defense, and she couldn’t have known the second was a Lord.

“What I _do_ think, is that the Lords would nod and acquiesce and the minute we were out of their territory they would be back to plotting. That’s if they didn’t put arrows in our backs the second we turned,” Nesta crossed her arms, tapping her fingers anxiously.

“Illyrians follow the strongest. They have always followed strength,” Cassian said those words with strange practice. And Nesta wondered how much of it was now a lie that he had to tell himself.

“And when it’s led them to nothing but suffering and death?”

Cassian shook his head, as if he could shake the reason from her words.

“It doesn’t matter, my people are warriors. They fight, it’s what we were born to do,”

She wanted to punch him. Slap him with the language he was apparently claiming was native to his people. Nesta held her hands on her lap. Fingers clenched together tightly.

“Believe me,” Nesta said quietly, “I can assure you if Illyrians ever had a purpose - were ever made with a task in mind, it was _nothing_ so simple,” she lifted her eyes to his, “I think…if you are told something enough you truly begin to believe it, regardless of whether it’s true or not,”

The urge to hit him passed with something that felt almost like pity replacing it and Nesta put her hand on his knee. She didn’t think about it, it simply happened and Cassian tensed; his expression pained.

Nesta knew why. It was something they’d both known for a long time but for their own stubborn reasons had never actively spoken about. They’d never been comfortable enough to. With a vague comprehension Nesta realized that Cassian was probably the closest friend she had.

It was a different bravery Nesta knew she now needed.

“I’d … wanted to be loved as a Human, not an immortal doll,” her voice was quiet with the admittance.

 _“I was in love with you from the very first moment you opened your mouth,”_ Cassian’s voice was low. A hiss filled with anger and a long suffering that stung her. Because Nesta knew she’d played a part in it. “Even when Mor told me that you felt nothing. That we would _be_ nothing. I still loved you. Even though sometimes you’d look at me like I was nothing but an animal,”

“Mor _told you_ …” Nesta felt white hot anger turn her stomach. There was a smell not unlike burnt hair that crept into her nostrils which she realised with alarm was Masha’s tunic, _burning_.

“Yes,” Cassian said, sighing. Noticing the smoke. “You didn’t exactly prove her wrong,”

Years; he’d been pining that long for her.

“Every second of every day was like walking on knives,” Nesta laughed coldly. “Gentle warmth a blazing fire on my skin; autumn breeze like cold daggers. Every sound, every smell, I was _assaulted_ by this world,” Nesta’s eyes pierced a silent Cassian. “And every time I closed my eyes to escape it, I dreamt of fire and blood and cracking bone. And all I heard from anyone was how _embarrassed_ they were of me. How I was letting Elain down. How I was upsetting Feyre,” Tears stung her eyes. “I didn’t care. I didn’t want to die…but I didn’t want to live either,”

Nesta found her breaths coming short all of a sudden as a lifetime of dammed tears slid down her cheeks.

“I told myself it was in my head. That you were just good at getting to me,”

Cassian’s arms were around her then and Nesta for the life of her couldn’t work out where the tears were all coming from. They flowed and flowed until Cassian’s shirt was wet with them and Nesta’s heart was empty.

“I’m sorry, Nesta. I’m so sorry,”

She opened her eyes and drew back to look at him, and the Lord of bloodshed, commander General of the army of the night court, was weeping.

The breath of air she took in, mixed with the scent of him, and the wood from the fire felt like the first real breath since coming out of the cauldron. Her body was light, her head clear.

Nesta wiped at her tear stained face as he released her.

“Tell me, what was in the box?”

Cassian looked at her quizzically, not understanding.

“The solstice gift,”

He sighed, wings twitching as the memory of that night came back to him. So much had gone wrong. Even after this much time, the feelings that surfaced were raw.

“It was my mother’s pendant,”

Nesta paled, knowing that Cassian had practically nothing of his mothers. She’d died with only the hope her only son would survive.

“You threw the last thing you had of your mother in the Sidre?”

Saying the words out loud didn’t make his reasoning any clearer and Nesta felt something worse than guilt stab her in the guts.

He should have hated her for that. Her name should have been a curse on his lips but instead of hatred, Cassian fell to his knees at her feet taking both her hands in his own.

“If I couldn’t give it to _you_ , I knew there would be no one else,”

And as he knelt there with his heart ripped open at her feet, Nesta took his face in her hands and kissed him.


	10. Chapter 10

Nesta felt herself fall into the kiss. It was like a healing rain that washed away the searing heat licking at her skin, blackening the edges of the wool. The fire that had been burning her from within, consuming her, fizzled away beneath it and Nesta sighed, her fingers winding their way into Cassian’s hair as she dropped to her own knees before him. She’d been hurt and in turn, had hurt him back, but the cycle needed to end. There had to be a point at which the suffering could stop.

Nesta pulled back enough to look Cassian in the eyes, her hands still tangled in his hair while his sat in his lap where he kept them, likely afraid of what would happen if he touched her. His wings were tense.

“The last thing I saw before falling into darkness was you crawling to me,” she admitted. As she tumbled in the black waters, it had been the sight of him, bleeding and broken, still reaching out for her that had lingered even as the void pulled her apart. “I love you,” Nesta whispered to him. She’d never loved before she’d met him. Before he’d landed in her life with his smart mouth and cheeky grin.

And the world shifted it’s axis on Nesta. And up was down and everything and nothing made sense. Every hair on her body stood up straight as she felt it; a tangible, physical pull to him. A roaring of some wild beast in her soul; howling for Cassian. _Cassian_. _Cassian!_ She’d have fallen if she weren’t already on her knees in front of him, and at the feeling of fingers brushing her cheek, Nesta opened her eyes; unsure when she’d closed them.

“I love you, too,” Cassian beamed at her.

“I _felt_ it,” Nesta croaked out, kissing him so hard she stole the very breath from his lungs. In a single moment, the need to be with him became almost painful. _This_ was a mating bond. That thing that had terrified her; one more link in the shackles chaining her in this new life. But she knew it had been there all along, it was simply a door that had always been there, a door she’d chosen now to open.

As if he were reading her mind - his own eyes still closed, Cassian caught her wrists gently while her hands wandered. Nesta knew that as Fae went, there was something a little more primal about Illyrians.

“Start _that_ , and Rhys can send someone else to sort this mess out, cause we won’t be leaving a bed for a few weeks at least,”

“Would that be such a bad idea,” she heard herself mutter to him. And even Nesta was shocked at the shameless husk in her voice.

“Trust me, sending Azriel would be a bad idea. As crazy as it is, we’re the best hope on this,”

Nesta clenched her thighs tight as she sat back on her heels. Desire was a strange sensation for her. There hadn’t been any particularly memorable experiences to drive the feeling of wanting someone so badly that it hurt, but she wanted him then. More than she had ever wanted him before.

“You can be an insufferable asshole when you’re right,”

“I like to think I’m an insufferable asshole all the time, sweetheart,” Cassian smirked.

Nesta went to stand but he caught her fingers in his. They were calloused and lined with almost imperceptible scars. The oldest cuts so fine that Nesta hadn’t truly noticed the extent when she’d been Human, but she saw them all now. Hundreds of marks from a lifetime of fighting. Most of which had been fighting for Rhysand and his court. Perhaps that might have been one of reasons she disliked him. You didn’t send your family out to fight for you. You didn’t put them in danger like that. Nesta and the High Lord of the Night Court had a lot in common on that front.

Cassian’s eyes bored into hers.

“We will have time,” he reiterated the promise he made so long ago now and for the first time Nesta found herself looking forward to something.

“I _will_ keep you to that,” Nesta said lifting her chin, meeting his promise with something almost like a threat. It made him laugh.

They rose to their feet together.

When the morning came, Nesta found Cassian dressed and waiting for her downstairs; Masha with him. Nesta couldn’t help but stare. Her wings had been unbound and without all the straps and belts containing them, Nesta could see the stark differences between male and females. Feyre’s were modelled after Azriel’s, Nesta knew that, and while they were perfectly functional, the real things had subtle differences. Their shape was more angled and the spines that normally curved at the highest joint were longer than the average males though the wingspan was shorter.

“Where are we going?”

“My home,”

Nesta had known Cassian had a house in Illyria. Intitially she’d thought that would be their destination when they set out on foot but he’d decided against it. He’d said it was too dangerous given the circumstances.

“What’s changed?”

“They’ll be looking for an Illyrian flying alone,” Cassian glanced to Masha, “Also this one has advised me that the normal patrols have changed. It should be safe,”

“And you’re sure about that?” Nesta asked her directly. From what Mara had told her, Masha had been lucky and her father had kept her free of the bindings most of her life until he’d been killed fighting Hybern. Lord Darius had taken her into his home shortly afterward.

“I am,”

“There’s a reason they bind females wings when they’re young, Nesta, they’re _fast_ ,” Cassian shook his head with a soft grin.

“Faster than the males?”

“ _Much faster,”_ Masha held her wings high. Pride in every inch and her grin practically demonic. “If the news of my father’s death had reached my door first, things would have been different,”

Nesta nodded, accepting that.

Masha hadn’t been exaggerating her speed. Despite the fact that carrying Nesta, Cassian was slightly slower, the female was a blur. At several points Nesta lost sight of her only for the sound of laughter to drop from the sky above them, the wind rattling Cassian’s wings, making him curse and Nesta grin as he held onto her just that little bit tighter. Masha dove with the speed and accuracy of a bird of prey.

They flew till midday and Cassian brought them down softly in a clearing of trees. Masha’s landing was so fast and hard that it upturned earth and rattled the birds in the trees.

Nesta good humour evaporated.

Blackened wood and ash greeted them. There was nothing left of the cabin. Three large lengths of scorched log and a crumbling stone chimney. The remnants of his home were everywhere. And the worst part of it to Nesta, was how unsurprised Cassian seemed. He’d known. Knew that there would be a chance that this was all that was left. He absently toed a splinter of wood with his boot as Nesta surveyed the completion of the destruction. It had been raised to the ground. The roof, the walls, the contents. On the ground, ash encompassed the entire clearing. Far from the fire.

“They likely hovered above the remains and beat their wings,” Masha looked at Cassian and snorted. A common practice designed to disperse the cinders and whatever remained. Blow all that he was to the four winds, so to speak. “You must have _really_ pissed them off,” Masha laughed.

“His very special talent,” Nesta said to her, though she was smiling softly at Cassian. She could feel the distress that simmered beneath his composure. The loss. The knowledge that his own people hated him. While Masha stalked through the ruins like a curious child, Nesta took Cassian’s hand and squeezed it. He sighed, mournfully.

“We won’t be here long,”

Cassian walked to the edge of the treeline, about forty feet from the house and began moving dirt with his feet. Nesta watched as he pulled up a hatch door and dragged a wooden chest from the ground.

“What’s in there?” Nesta asked, creeping forward while Cassian rummaged in the contents huffing and puffing.

The helm he set on the ground beside him she recognized instantly. She would never forget. Never forget the sight of him leaving for the battlefield wearing it. As he pulled weapons and heavy armour from its depths, it became clear what this was; his personal cache.

Cassian stood, holding a short sword, offering the hilt to Nesta who quirked an eyebrow at him.

“And what would you like me to do with that?”

“We can’t be unarmed. It’s customary for warriors to present….”

“If they think I’m less dangerous, or less of a warrior because I’m not lumbering about with a piece of useless steel, they’re idiots,” Nesta would fight, but she couldn’t bring herself to touch a blade like that again. She would fight her own way, on her own terms, if it came to it.

A small hand plucked it out of Cassian’s grasp.

“I’ll take this, then,” Masha’s smile was wide.

“You won’t be going,” Cassian snorted in disbelief that she would assume otherwise.

He almost didn’t move fast enough to avoid the spear tipping her wing as she leaned forward and extended it; swinging it like an arm. He’d never seen an Illyrian do that before, use their wings like that. They were sensitive. The usual fighting style was to protect them at all costs.

“Lady Archeron may protect _you_ ,” she glared at him, “but Mara has tasked me to protect _her_ ,”

Nesta could practically smell the territorial jealousy off of him. Cassian practically growled at the female.

“And you think you’d stand a chance against an experienced warrior in combat?”

Masha snarled and kicked a clot of dirt at him which struck Cassian square in the forehead. While he wiped the ash and mud from his face she leveled the sword at his chest.

“ _Yes_ , because I cheat,”

Nesta could admit that she really, really liked this girl.

“Masha, you would be putting yourself at risk…” Nesta interjected. The girl was young. For a race of people that remained virtually ageless, Nesta could plainly see her youth.

“I would have died in that place if not for you. I owe you my life,” Masha bowed to Nesta before turning to Cassian and doing the same. He seemed to be coming to the conclusion that the choice was out of his hands.

“I would protect your mate with my life, Lord General,”


	11. Chapter 11

Masha was about Elain’s height, though Nesta often found that the presence of Illyrian wings skewed her estimations somewhat. Taller or shorter? She couldn’t _properly_ tell, their vertical proportions were practically an optical illusion. The girl had a pretty, square face though and a long braid of chestnut hair. Masha might have been considered beautiful if she didn’t constantly wear a somewhat twisted expression of open malice. Nesta though loved the honesty in her face; the transparency of her distain for the things she disliked shimmering in a pair of brown eyes that seemed to shine red in the sunlight.

And then there was that _word_. _Mate_. The one that now had Cassian awkwardly scratching at his head and made Nesta’s heart race. Of course _they_ knew. They’d both accepted that their relationship was on the cusp of changing; morphing into something more, but hearing that word on someone else’s lips made Nesta squirm.

“Mate?” Nesta repeated. “You think he’s my mate?” she asked, her tone suspicious. She hadn’t considered it before, but for all the wonderful aspects of this, there was a significant drawback if it was so obvious.

If it was that known that they were an item, they would undoubtedly be used against each other.

Masha threw her head back and laughed, putting her hands on her hips before realising that Nesta’s question was entirely serious.

“I think….” she chuckled, “That if I were to _hug_ you,” she turned to smile at Cassian, “he would rip my fucking head off,”

“That is definitely a problem then, Nes,” Cassian frowned.

“I would think so, I’m quite _fond_ of my head,” Masha laughed, oblivious.

“He means that information like that puts us at risk,” Nesta explained, waving her hand dismissively.

“Ah,” Masha laughed, picking her nails on the tip of the sword. “Then you’re _really_ lucky you haven’t fucked him yet,”

Of _course_ a Fae would sniff that out immediately but her language took Nesta by surprise. Masha was normally so quiet. She’d barely heard her speak before today.

“You’ve a _mouth_ ,” Cassian snarled. His and Nesta’s fledgeling bond wasn’t the only thing that would put them at risk. Where they were going, a female speaking out so carelessly would likely see her head and wings cleaved off. “It’ll get you killed!” he admonished.

“I’m a female, I live every day of my life with the knowledge that _breathing loudly_ might get me killed,”

“Then you should know better,” Cassian threw a pauldron and a set of leathers at her. Nesta crossed her arms and inclined her head wondering what he was doing. “If you don’t want the sword, then you don’t get the armour, sweetheart,” he smirked.

So Nesta helped her into the fighting leathers, fixing the straps on her shoulders and back. She noticed a beautiful black pendant hidden away under her tunic; an obsidian stone that looked like it had cost a fortune. The females of the camp had no possessions of their own. Nothing the Lord hadn’t given them. But Nesta knew that Masha hadn’t always been a slave; the things Nesta had held onto from her old life were infinitely more valuable than the price they’d fetch. It was probably the same.

Cassian circled her once Nesta was finished with the straps. Tugging at them, ensuring they were secure. Nesta briefly wondered when Cassian had had the leathers made and who for, because they fit Masha better than they would have her, and they were designed for a female with wings.

“They’ll do,” he rumbled. “Could you fly carrying someone?” Cassian noticed Nesta’s frosty glare. “We shouldn’t arrive together, sweetheart, for more than the obvious reasons,”

Masha nodded. “Yes, I carried wounded males between camp healers,”

Cassian looked her over one more. As far as Nesta was concerned, Masha didn’t look strong enough but he seemed satisfied.

————

The Lord’s seal was nothing but a cheap ornate trinket. A circular disk engraved with an obscure symbol that not even Cassian could identify. Nesta tied it on her belt and double knotted it.

Which was a wise decision as fying with Masha redefined Nesta’s idea of terror. She swore to the mother that from that day forward she would never complain about Cassian or Azriel ever again. Watching Masha fly was like watching an aerial performance. Beautiful, thrilling. Being a _part_ of that performance was not such a wonderful experience. Nesta felt herself jerked again, barely suppressing a nauseated scream as the girl shot upwards, climbing into the clouds and dropping, accelerating passed Cassian who had been fighting to stay with them. It was no wonder why Masha was so confident about her ability to evade capture in the sky . She was erratic and unpredictable. Following her with the eye would have been difficult, following her in the air would have been impossible.

Nesta felt herself slip a little as they caught an updraft and levelled out on their latest descent; Masha adjusting her tenuous grip on her.

According to Cassian, the Lord’s would need to be summoned, and they could be called only from the city; the only one of its kind left in Illyria still standing and populated from what Nesta could tell from Cassian’s descriptions, were ultra conservative, violent Illyrian zealots. And the token that Nesta now carried, was their only way in safely. Once there, they could summon the Lord’s to convene. It was neutral territory; the only place in Prythian where they could all meet without fear of walking into a trap. A protected place.

It didn’t surprise Nesta that as they approached the city she found them ascending into the clouds. The air becoming thin, and her head turning light. Passed a wall of white mist bloomed the peak of a mountain that made Nesta happy that they weren’t on foot; there didn’t seem to be a path for those without wings and that could have been a painful week of climbing for her. Nestled near the top - cut into the rock in similar fashion to Rhysand’s mountain home, towers spiralled along the cliff face bridged by enormous balconies that Nesta could only assume were for landing and taking off. The gates that Cassian spoke of were entirely figurative while the city itself was mostly hidden behind sheer rock.

When Masha landed it shook Nesta’s very bones and rattled her teeth, but there was a relief in having her feet on solid ground again.

Nesta waited in silence for Cassian to arrive. Despite her earlier cockiness, Masha didn’t speak and was entirely still; Nesta could feel the tension from her, the way her eyes strayed to the skies watching for him.

The girls speed was truly something otherworldly as Cassian came to a landing twenty minutes later looking, to Nesta’s surprise, somewhat out of breath and very irritated.

“You fly like a lunatic,” he grabbed her by the wing, making her wince. “When you fly with _my_ mate, you do not take those chances,” he snarled, his voice low and threatening.

Nesta sucked in a deep breath, turned on her heels and hit Cassian directly in the face with as much force as she could muster. It wasn’t much, she hadn’t trained like Feyre, but it was just enough to make him stagger back and blink. Silenced and stunned.

For a moment his eyes were unfocused - in confusion and hurt - but they hardened instantly. Behind Nesta three armed Illyrian males had appeared and were watching them keenly. Cassian bit down all that he was feeling.

“If you _touch_ her again - so much as _breathe_ in her direction, I will incinerate you where you stand and your High Lord will need to house-train a new pup,” Nesta tilted her chin up and looked at him over her upturned nose. For this she would be the Nesta of old. The monster under their beds.

Cassian lowered his head.

“ _Yes_ , Lady Archeron,” he said through clenched teeth.

Nesta turned to the guards and threw the seal that she carried on her belt at their feet where it clanged like cheap tin.

“Summon the Lords,” she bared her teeth. “Summon them all,” she demanded.


	12. Chapter 12

The air of hostility was suffocating. It wouldn’t have surprised Nesta if the staircase spiralling up from the balcony where they’d landed had been lined with assassins ready to slit their throats. The warriors guarding the entrance to the city led the way ahead and she was glad that they walked in front so she didn’t have to feel the heat of their eyes on her back; boring into her.

Nesta focused her mind on the cold, dark stone underfoot and her breathing. _In, out. One step, two. Left, right._ Tracing the pathway back to freedom as they were led through the passageways to the city; mapping the labyrinth. Masha walked at her side with Cassian guarding their backs and though she put on a brave front, Nesta could practically feel her nerves.

“They cannot shed Illyrian blood here,” she told the girl, keeping her words quiet. Nesta knew that there were a thousand other ways - _terrible ways_ , that they could die without a single drop of blood being spilled, but she hoped Masha found some comfort in the empty sentiment.

The ‘gate’ to the city of Calcarum was in actual fact a maze. A pitch black series of tunnels without marking or doors - endless turns and the stench of ancient death. Here, the mountains peaked so high, and the air so thin, there was no way over, not even for a people born with wings. The only way in was through the passageways.

Emerging from darkness on the other side Nesta’s eyes stung with blinding light before her face fell. From the way Cassian would talk about it, Calcarum was a gem hidden in the Illyrian mountains. Their last true city- the place every Illyrian revered. But the city was _gone_. It must have had fallen lifetimes ago, and despite their supposed love for it, it was never rebuilt. A crumbling tomb littered with broken pillars; a garden of monuments and statues now reclaimed by weeds and plants. Once white stone blackened with fire. It had been raised to the ground.

“If Illyrians love this place so dearly, why has it been left in such a state?”

“You heard of any Illyrian master stone masons, sweetheart?”

“No,” in truth, Nesta knew that Illyrians that couldn’t fight normally ended up dead. The ones that practiced a trade, despite being essential, were looked down on. There was no such thing as a master of crafts out here.

“The High Fae breached the city thousands of years ago, before Illyria was absorbed into the Night Court. This was what was left,” Cassian looked it over again. He hadn’t been in hundreds of years. Normally Rhys would simply send messages to the Lord’s but the messengers had long since stopped returning. War was coming and this was the only path left to him, to gather them all in one place and either cow them once more, or convince them to stop.

As they walked on a broken path filled with overgrown weeds, Nesta found her eyes drawn to a high craggy peak at the heart of Calcarum; a ruined building balancing on its summit overlooking the city below. She realised she’d seen it before, though artist liberty had depicted it on a hill instead of the razor sharp cliffs; the painting in the Lord’s house.

They idea that High Fae thought of them as nothing more than savages angered Nesta more and more with each step they took. This place had been beautiful once. A city of art and light. Protected from even the clouds themselves. With the sun at its peak, this was a place that was in nothing elses shadow.

The Fae she’d found could be a cruel lot, but the cruelty of destroying a place so magnificent, so legitimately steeped in magic, made her grit her teeth.

They were already waiting for them there. Six Illyrian males wearing robes. Nesta blanched at the sight of their wings. The way they slumped and dragged along the ground. Every one of them had been mutilated exactly like the females she’d seen. Her dispassionate gaze must have faltered at the sight because she made it obvious she was staring.

“We agreed to have them clipped,” a male spoke out. His eyes were a deep green and the lines on his face betrayed his age. He was fair for an Illyrian.

“Why?” Nesta’s voice was flat. Though it took effort to wipe the accusation from it.

“It was this or execution. And to die, would have been to let die all that we knew, and only _that_ was true death.”

Nesta simply nodded. There was nothing more to say on the subject. They had chosen self isolation and suffering in place of letting Illyrias history die with them.

“We have sent the summons. The rules of this place are unbending. There will be no blood shed. There will be no fighting. No lies. You are here by grace of the seal you carry, and this invitation may be revoked at any time, at our whim.”

Cassian bowed, and Nesta and Masha followed. Though Nesta watched the robed males eyes fix squarely on Masha in a way that made her uncomfortable.

“How long?”

“The Lord’s are given a day to arrive once they’ve received the summons which will be with them by morning,” the green eyed male answered.

They would be spending two nights here. And the second morning would see the first of the Lord’s enter the city. Nesta honestly didn’t know what happened next. It felt like she’d begun to hold her breath. Her chest was tight.

“There are some rooms in the Avery that should be clean.”

Cassian turned to look at the far side of the city, to a building carved out of the rock, the furthest distance from the gates.

“No need, we’ll camp in the gardens,”

“As you wish.”

That he would choose to stay nearest the exit did not fill Nesta with confidence.

————

“They don’t seem all that bad.”

Nesta heard Masha say as Cassian began to set a fire. Even though she wore only a light cloak and one of Masha’s borrowed wool tunics, she only occasionally felt her skin prickle with the wind and she hadn’t felt it when they’d flown. The cold had stopped reaching Nesta.

“Every terrible law that you likely hate came from here,” Cassian punctuated with a violent strike of the flint that made Masha twitch. “Every savage and violent punishment. Every unjust ruling. They will be polite, and bow and never raise their voices to you, and quietly convene the Lord’s and demand to know how many children they’d sired and if they were taking enough females to get the job done,” Cassian looked her in the eye. “They are very _much_ thatbad.”

“Didn’t you say that Rhysand outlawed those practices?” Nesta asked.

“There’s very few ways to enforce it,” he turned his eyes to Masha’s wings even as she scored uneasy lined in the earth with them as she sat; absently tearing up the ground at her back. “You could do irreparable damage to them doing that,” he sucked in a breath and threw a piece of meat over the flames to cook as the girl glared at him.

Nesta had watched Masha fight with those same wings; wings that most males wouldn’t permit you to touch due to their sensitivity. She swung the things round like clubs.

“Their mine, I’ll do what I want with them.”

Cassian had barely blinked and one of those same wings shot out over the flames, hooking the meat off his skewer with a claw. Nesta realised they were dealing with the Illyrian equivalent of a brooding teenager. He didn’t say anything about his stolen food, though Nesta could see his mind go to work behind his eyes, wondering how her wings were that dextrous.

“Your father let you fly, huh?” Cassian remarked and her demeanor changed. Becoming guarded.

“He thought the High Lord was right… and…that I had my mother’s wings.”

Nesta didn’t need to ask Masha about her. She’d already been told that her father had been all the girl had left. She was dead. Hopefully nothing worse.

“You’re fast, I’ll give you that. I’ve seen some females fly and they’re quick, but I’ve never had to fight so hard to keep up with anyone before.”

Nesta would have expected Masha to leap on the complement but she didn’t. Instead she grew quiet. Eating her stolen supper as Cassian put more over the flames.

The two nights passed peacefully and the day with them. No one had bothered them as they wandered what was left of the barren city. Nesta took in sculptures of Illyrian males, their wings broken, their heads shattered. A scattering of guards wandered spying on them from a distance but they never approached and didn’t speak. There were animals, no birds. The city was a crater in the mountains with walls too high to fly over; too jagged and sharp to climb. The mysterious temple on the crag at the cities heart, continually calling to Nesta.

The morning came and the Lord’s began to arrive with their guards. Thirty of them in total over the course of the morning, each with a handful of warriors for protection. All were clad in fine armour, some with silk shirts, a sophistication that did nothing to conceal the tangible, feral hatred that accompanied them.

Nesta had to remind herself that she’d essentially snuck into their sacred city and utilized a loophole to force their hand; they had no reason whatsoever to be happy about this. They would also be coming here expecting retaliation; knowing that their plotting had been discovered and two of the strongest weapons their High Lord had at his disposal had come to bring them in line.

They set up their own camps amid the ruins, not one Lord taking up the offer of a room at the Avery. All of them set camp in clusters near the gate; watchful and evenly spaced. Nesta didn’t know enough of the history of this place to tell if that was paranoia or prudence. She wouldn’t have necessarily called Illyrians a paranoid people.

At the foot of the crag, at it’s heart, Nesta and Cassian sat waiting for them at dusk on the second day. Seats had been set out for them arranged in a horseshoe. One for every Lord. At Cassian’s request, Masha stayed out of sight. Nesta hadn’t argued after seeing the earlier reactions to her.

They all came and took a seat and from the throng, Nesta recognized some faces amidst the unfamiliar, but there was one bald head she was a little better acquainted with than the others. Lord Michel grinned when he caught sight of her and Nesta scowled. There were some seats empty. She could personally account for two of those. The muttering and harsh whispers between them began to grow in volume and agitation and Nesta swallowed. They’d already decided the night previous that it would be her that should address them. No love for her, but less animosity than for Cassian.

Nesta rose and fixed the sleeves of her tunic, making sure to stare down every single Lord present with a glare worthy of Hybern. Stiff spine and ice for blood. Steel for a soul.

“ _Don’t_ expect to be thanked for bothering to turn up. I know you’d no choice,” she heard Cassian hiss her name in heart racing panic but she didn’t stop. “So, would the ringleaders of this coup please make yourself known?”


	13. Chapter 13

Roars erupted from the Lords and with a deep, crushing dread, Nesta heard the cry of swords being drawn. A sound that had pierced her worst nightmares ever since the battle. Cassian was on his feet in moments, his hand on her arm as two dozen Illyrian males abandoned their seats shouting curses at her. This had been entirely expected, Nesta reminded herself even as the fear sucker punched her in the ribs. She forced her eyes away from the rage - the hate, and settled them on the quiet Lord’s; the ones who’d remained seated. A silent communication passing between them. She took note, and sat back down, Cassian shielding her.

“SILENCE!” Cassian roared and the sound rang out louder than all the others; rattling the broken stones. The clamour died down to a handful of voices. Lords who remembered who Cassian was.

“You would have a female - a _sow_ , show us such disrespect in _this_ holy place,” someone yelled and Cassian turned to look at Nesta, she couldn’t quite tell what he was feeling from his face. Amusement, worry, frustration. Something in him felt like it was going to explode. Nesta held up a hand to tell him she was okay .

She knew that Cassian would be re-telling the story of how they’d summoned the Illyrian Lords for her to insult, for many years to come.

“This place hasn’t been holy since you let the Lord’s of the Night Courts burn it down,”

“The Lord _you_ serve,”

 _“I serve no one,”_ Nesta’s voice was like a blade that cut through and eviscorated any argument they would have otherwise made on the point. “ _Least_ of all Rhysand,”

Anger began to fade to confusion. She could see it, the uncertainty sweeping their ranks like a plague. There was to be no lies in this place, that was one of the rules here, and Nesta wouldn’t have been surprised if there was some magic at play that would highlight deception, so she’d promised to use truth.

“You mean to tell us you aren’t here on behalf of the High Lord?”

“ _He_ is here on Rhysand’s behalf,” she looked to Cassian who was looking somewhat off kilter. Nesta smiled. “I was exiled from his contemptuous city because I drank too much, I gambled and humiliated his inner circle. It’s quite possible if I die out here, he’d be otherwise relieved,”

The rage of the minutes before fizzled out. One by one the Lords all sat down. Lord Michel burst out laughing.

“ _Lord_ Archeron,” he exclaimed, and there we several cunning looks his way. Nesta couldn’t tell if he were attempting to make fun of her. “You play a very dangerous game,”

“I can assure you, she’s not playing,” Cassian’s words fell like a hammer amid the new calm.

“Why are you here if not to take part, then?” The Lord spread his hand. “We were summoned, and we have appeared. Now, please, if the Lord of Bloodshed and the Lady of Fire and Death would be so kind as to tell us _why_?”

Nesta rankled at the title. As though the Lord had looked into her and seen everything she’d feared about herself and given it a name.

“There’s been enough war,” Cassian said.

“We agree on that at least, and we’re very much tired of fighting your High Lord’s battles,”

“And what? You rather fight other ones instead?” Cassian sneered.

And Nesta felt it, the sliver of fear that crept through her mate. The thing that kept Cassian awake on sleepless nights. The conundrum he couldn’t solve.

Cassian knew that if the Illyrian’s were ever released from their bond with the Night Court, they would likely aim to _take_ the court. They had been nurtured and raised in death and the threat of endless war. And this was always going to be a likely outcome once the leash were removed.

The knowledge almost rocked Nesta from her seat. He wasn’t blind, or stupid, he knew that the promises that Rhysand held them to, were unjust. Illyrians were a subservient species of Fae being bred for war. But the moment they were let free they would turn on their former Master. And somewhere between, Cassian was trapped. Between two worlds. Each shackled with their own cruelty. Between a vilified, desperate people and the family that had saved him from an early death.

“And if Illyria were free?” Nesta threw the question to the wind, watching as Lords took it in like air. “The Night Court maintains peace between the camps. Legislates laws. Trade. _What is your plan?”_ Nesta asked seriously.

“Our plan is none of that mungrol’s business,” someone pronounced.

“That mungrol is Illyrian, too, as such he would not entertain simply cutting Illyria to the four winds unless he knew that his mothers people, _his_ people would be safe, prosperous, and that the freedom you seek from him would apply to _all_ Illyrians,”

“You don’t have permission to raise those topics,” Cassian said turning to her, a part of him reaching for her through an untethered bond. This time Nesta knew that when she hurt him, she would be hurting herself, and she braced for it, hoping he would accept her apology later.

“I was proclaimed a Camp Lord, I have a seat at this enclave, I will raise whatever topics I choose to,” she said, her face was steel.

The Lord’s had stilled. Nesta had known what it was they wanted, it’s was easy to see. She’d learned a lot at Court. She’d learned to deal with both men and Fae males.

Hope could be a wonderful thing.

When the moon was full the Lord’s broke away, returning to their fires.

Cassian waited until they’d left and only Nesta remained before he caught her by the arm.

“What in the fucking unmaker do you think you’re doing?” He snarled at her. “I told them you didn’t play games,”

“I’m not,”

“Rhys is _furious_. Have you any idea what you’ve done? The ideas you’ve put in their heads now?”

“You mean the notion that instead of bleeding for it, they could earn their freedom doing all the things that Rhysand wanted them to do in the first place but couldn’t enforce, you mean?”

“What you’ve _done_ , is make us look _weak_!” He bit out. She pulled her arm from his grasp. “What you’ve _done_ , is shifted power to them,”

“They already know that the power is theirs, we _cannot_ afford war. Why would we have come if that weren’t already true?”

Cassian couldn’t answer her.

“Rhysand didn’t come himself because that alone would have been a threat. I see why,” she looked around at the destruction around them. At what the last High Lord to set foot in the city had done. “We are here because while the Lord’s might hate you, they respect you as a warrior, and because I can say I think Rhysand is a hypocritical _prick_ , and it will be truth. I am the neutral party. I may not like your High Lord, but he isn’t stupid,”

“Nesta, I can practically _feel_ the anger from Velaris. This isn’t his plan,”

“No, _we_ are the plan, and this is the best there is, so tell him to _suck it up_ ,” she squared her shoulders. “I’m not going to see any nieces or nephews of mine born in ruination…” Nesta almost said ‘if _we_ have children,’ but didn’t. Motherhood wasn’t her. Wasn’t for her. “I will not have them born into this,” she sneered, biting down, staring him in the eye. She could feel something else, something watching her that wasn’t Cassian. Perhaps it was Rhysand staring at her now through her mates eyes. Cassian’s expression softened.

“I hope you know what you’re doing,”

“I don’t,” she smiled. “Are you with me?”

“Always,” Cassian sighed. “Even when I’m so embarrassed, I want to die.”

Nesta laughed. The night no longer held any chill for her.

“Now, tell the prick to fuck off back to his own mind,”

Cassian snorted.

“Nesta, he was gone the _moment_ you told him to suck it up. Probably to laugh about how close you came to getting yourself killed today,”

“Let him laugh. If he wants Illyrians to fight for him it’ll be on a paid, voluntary basis. We’ll see how much he’s laughing then when we’re negotiating _salaries_ ,”

Cassian swept down and kissed her and Nesta felt her toes curl as he pulled her off her feet. In the back of her mind a voice cried out that she should stop, that the risk of being seen here was too great, but the louder beat of her heart in her ears quietened it.

“He could have given you the Court of Nightmares,” Cassian’s eyes seemed to spark in the moonlight, “I think I would have very much enjoyed watching you make Keir cry,”

“I’m immortal, Cassian, there’ll be time yet,”

—————-

Masha was still awake when they returned, seated by the fire, tossing stones. The picture of boredom.

“That took a while,”

“I’ve been at meetings that dragged on for days. We’re both lucky that the only thing they want more than war is a break from Nesta or we’d be there all night,”

“But, its going well?”

“It’s going somewhere,” was all Cassian said before laying down.

Nesta didn’t sleep that night, lying awake staring at the sky thinking about everything that had happened. With her Fae eyes she could see the heavens move and whirl; see the blanket of stars unfurled against the deep blue of the night where there’d only been blackness before when she was Human. Nesta felt that if she just reached out her hand she’d be able to pluck them from the sky. For the first time - her fingers, her eyes, they felt like her own and she didn’t feel like a stranger in someone else’s skin.


	14. Chapter 14

Nesta hadn’t intended to fall asleep; Cassian had passed out by the fire soon after fetching wood from the city stock and she hadn’t seen him sleep so deeply in so long, that the idea of disturbing him seemed abhorrent. So, she’d planned to remain awake; the watchful guard. An easy decision since the notion of sleeping out in the open, surrounded and at such risk made her gut twist and anxiety, rattle her. But as she sat staring at the night sky a weariness crept up on her on the light smoke and the night wind. A bone deep exhaustion she found herself ill-equipped to fight and despite all promises to the contrary, Nesta found her eyes drifting closed.

The voice returned, whispering to her, beckoning her to the cliff of mist. It was soft as a lullaby; a gentle caress of notes in her ear like a siren song. “ _Fly_ ,” it continually sang, but when Nesta looked down the mist had become too thick to even see her feet, and she froze were she was unable to discern the edge, paralyzed, as it billowed round her ankles. She heard the voice again but we’re it had once been like the mist itself; intangible as air, it was now solid and real. Like a punch. And Nesta realised that it had sounded so familiar, because the voice belonged to Elain.

“ _ **Wake up, Nesta**!”_

Nesta’s eyes snapped open. The sun hadn’t quite risen, but around her dozens of figures in low light were moving. She sucked in a breath but when she tried to yell the sound was muffled as something pressed down heavy on her face and chest. She flung her hands up and they hit leathery armour; an unfamiliar stench of blood and sweat. On instinct, she bit down on whatever was covering her mouth and there was a sharp scream before something collided with her head and the world began to wildly spin.

She didn’t feel them drag her to her feet; Nesta tried to focus but her vision was too blurry. _Cassian_? _Where was Cassian_? When she opened her mouth to speak, something hit her again. First in the head, hard enough to make her ears ring and her skull crack and before she’d recovered from that, the next strike hit her in the back, over her shoulder. She was still too deaf to hear herself scream; the pain was unlike anything she’d ever experienced, lancing through her like lightning. Sharp and intense enough that she bit her own tongue, tasting blood. Her mind swam even as arms dragged her, the toes of her boots scrapping the dirt. Nesta couldn’t tell sky from earth.

When darkness overtook her, she thought perhaps she’d slipped out of consciousness but for the agony in her shoulder and arm telling her she was still awake. Nesta’s struggled but every attempt to pull away resulted in another dizzying hit. There was a crack to the side that made breathing difficult, and left her in doubt about the integrity of her ribs, so instead of continuing to resist, Nesta concentrated on the pain and willed her mind to clear through the strange fog.

She clenched her teeth and searched for the fire; the blistering magic that was always coiling just beneath her skin but it wouldn’t come. Her power was sand slipping through her fingers.

Light finally stung her eyes. They were the thin rays of a watery dawn rising and Nesta realised the darkness had been the gate out of Calcarum and that they were now on the ledge over nothingness. The morning mist was thick beyond.

When they dropped Nesta to her knees, she’d recovered enough of herself to stay upright but only barely. Something wet was running a down her back, soaking into the tunic and pants and she realised sickly that it was blood.

Nesta was aware enough to begin to comprehend what was happening, and her blood ran cold as she watched them drag a stripped Cassian, looped in chains before her. His face was bloody but he was alive, if not half conscious. Near the edge of the balcony a male dropped a conscious Masha to the stone, her hands bound, and Nesta’s heart fell into her stomach. The way her wings fell limply to the ground. Useless and dead weight.

They’d cut them. They’d clipped her wings. Tears welled up but didn’t fall as Nesta watched Lord Michel and three of his accomplices emerged onto the balcony. They would not have them from her. They would not.

“We _were_ five,” Michel looked to her and the three other Lords, “But Novas was always brawn, with little brain. He almost deserved what you did to him,” he smiled pleasantly, shaking his head as though he’d scolded a child. As though this were a friendly conversation. In Nesta’s chest, rage that was now incapable of burning him, scorched her instead, burning a path of hate though her soul.

Michel tilted her head up by the chin and Nesta spat at him. Satisfied with the blood that sprayed his silk shirt.

Michel grimaced but didn’t seem angered. He looked at her curiously. The same kind of curiosity a cat would give a mouse.

“You should know that nearly half of the Lord’s here were swayed by your words yesterday. We _had_ planned to let you leave here alive, let you say what you wanted and go, but you were just _too_ convincing, and my brethren are too weak to give you another day with them,”

His hand dropped to her shoulder and down her back where he touched on something that made her scream. A cry, piercing enough that Cassian jolted awake. Michel’s eyes narrowed. There was something lodged in her back Nesta realised.

“There should have been enough ash mixed in that firewood to keep the General unconscious for days,” he chuckled.

But Cassian was awake now and despite the chains binding him and his wings, four males struggled to hold him.

Michel huffed, and in full view of Cassian he stepped behind her, leaned close and flicked his tongue along the shell of her ear.

Nesta heard links in the one of the chains break as Cassian roared, managing to gain two step to her before they regained control. She watched bruises form in real-time on his chest and arms; bare and stripped of his armour, fighting against them.

“Mates then,” Michel frowned, disappointed. “You truly had an Illyrian spirit,”

“ _Nesta_!” Cassian’s voice broke under her name. The apology she felt rather than heard in the single word. Michel looked to him and inclined his head.

“She will be banished to the temple and we will see how long that spirit lasts. There, she can choose to starve or throw herself down to you on the rocks below,” he leaned in close again, his breath brushing her ear. “You were right, Lord Archeron. Illyria must unite and leave behind it’s broken traditions. Rest easy, things will change for out females. You have shown me their strength,”he locked eyes with Cassian over her shoulder. “When you’re dead, he will beg us to let him follow you,”

“The guardians…” Cassian started to say, his voice shaking. They would never have allowed this. The city was sacred. The protection once granted only they could revoke.

“Most of them already await you in hell with the other Lords, others will be there soon enough,” he snapped his fingers and his warriors began moving and Nesta once more was hauled to her feet.

“I will endure,” Nesta’s voice was hoarse and quiet. “I will endure long enough to see you _die_ ,” her eyes became pinpricks in the blinding dawn as the sun rose. She’d seen the end of Kings. She’d fallen into darkness, wrapped her fist around it’s throat and _squeezed_. This would not be the end. So long as they still breathed, they would win. And Michel would come to regret his treachery. Nesta would live. And so long as she did, so would Cassian.

And for a second the light eclipsed everything in her field of vision. It washed away the sight of Cassian, bleeding and struggling and Michel’s cold, calculating grin.

Time slowed as the flash of light passed and Nesta’s eyes bored into Cassian, willing him to survive…before they moved to Masha, the girls eyes wide as warriors hauled her up by her crippled wings and cast her over the edge and out into the mist. And Nesta watched her struggle for a moment, flailing for purchase with her useless, beautiful wings on the thin wind before falling into nothing below.


	15. Chapter 15

So many things went through Nesta’s mind as they dragged her back into the city. A feeling of guilt so poisonous and potent it shriveled all the parts of her that had slowly begun to come back to life. Masha’s innocent, quiet face in those last moments; it was burned into Nesta’s mind; her despair. They should have forced her back to the camp. Nesta had resented being so young and being dragged into war, but that was precisely what she’d done. Drag an innocent girl into a situation she should have been protected from. But Nesta had been so naive. Had she really thought that she could walk into this place with an Illyrian female on one arm and the General they despised on the other and talk them into changing? Cassian had been right. He’d _known_. Knew what it would take to stop a war and he’d still stood beside her, wrong as she’d been. As she’d fumbled around like a child with problems older than she could comprehend. There _was_ no way to reason with ambition, or with blind bigotry. It needed to be stamped out. _Crushed_. And he knew it.

Cassian walked in chains; still in shock, his eyes flickering to her in a worry that told her her injuries were bad. They’d actually planned on throwing them all over the edge. All of them. The thought hit Nesta so hard she threw up in her mouth. But something stopped Michel, and despite all his likely beliefs about the greater good and how he was now its agent in Illyria, it was malice that was keeping her and Cassian alive. As much as he wanted them out of the way, he’d wanted Cassian to suffer more. As soon as he’d realised they were mates, he knew he had the opportunity to break Cassian in a way that no other torture would ever achieve. That the Lord General of the armies of hell itself could be reduced to madness.

They brought them to the foot of the temple at the heart of Calcarum, and Nesta watched powerless as they took those chains holding Cassian and fed them through great rings embedded in the stone. They pulled the ends taut and bolted them down, forcing Cassian to his knees as the loops tightened on his chest and around his wings. Dark bruises meshed with his tattoos, blurring the sharp, spiral edges.

“We will have time in _this_ life, Cassian. I’m not a patient individual,” Nesta smiled at him. This was her promise to him. To stay alive. He grinned back at her. A slow smile so filled with murderous intent that even though she weren’t the target, it chilled her to the bone. He would _kill_ them all if he were free. There would be no quarter or mercy. No hesitation. He would bring the wrath of the Night Courts down on them. He would wipe them and their memory from the earth with unending waves of blood. Nesta truly saw him in that moment. Saw all of him. His regrets and his darkness. For all of his experience and his strength, inside of him, there was still just a child who’d been abandoned and would burn the world down for the family he’d found.

Nesta had hated and despised Rhysand’s court, but she was coming to understand that there were no saints or savior’s in Prythian, only survivors. And they’d all suffered in those battles. They were all trying to come to some sort of terms with the things they’d lost.

Nesta had very little warning that they were taking off. A hand wound into her hair, wrenching her head back and a bruising grip snaked around her waist, crushing her ribs as one of Michel’s warriors took to the sky with her in tow.

She watched Cassian become a smaller and smaller figure as they travelled up. The air so thin in near the temple that there were moments when she lost consciousness, only to be dragged screaming back to awareness; jostled in the air by uncaring hands like a sack of flour.

They did not land, rather, the warrior released her about ten feet above the main steps, laughing as Nesta landed badly, rolling down the stone before finally coming to a stop, coughing. Too many things hurt. It felt like her ankle was broken. Her shoulder was on fire. Every breath Nesta took was the equivalent of inhaling flames. She balled her hands into fists in the earth; the sharp black stones biting into her skin like shards of glass.

Nesta had never actively sought to kill anything. Her tongue may have made to maim many, but she’d never known herself to be violent until she’d met the Fae. Till she _was_ Fae. At that precise moment, she knew that no matter what it took, she was going to get up, get down to Cassian and then _she was going to rip Michel limb from limb_. She would mark Masha’s grave with his severed wings, posted in the earth like tomb stones.

But almost nothing moved the way it should and Nesta fought with her own body just to get herself into a seated position. She reached around to her injured shoulder and her fingers brushed the shaft of a broken arrow. The searing pain was immediate and enough to knock all the air from her lungs, making her gasp and her ribs cry out again.

Nesta bit down, trying to steady herself as she attempted to get a grip on the wood again, but her fingers slipped; there was too much blood to pull it out she realised. Tears began falling down her cheeks. Tears for Masha, dead on the mountain somewhere below, for Cassian who had mistakenly put his faith in her and would suffer for it. For all those who were going to die in the war to come. Alone, in the shadow of an ancient tomb, Nesta cried. Too many feelings roaring up in her to sort or supress. There was blood everywhere now, on her hands and arms and face. Mingling with tears and dirt. She cried till there was nothing left to come out. Until she was empty of feeling. And that’s when she felt it; something reaching for her when there should have been a chasm. A warmth, drowning out the pain. A _question_.

“ _Cassian_ ,” she said his name out loud, her voice hoarse from screaming, and she felt an immediate surge of relief. He was _there_. She wasn’t alone. No matter what happened to her or where she went, he was always a part of her.

On her hands and knees, Nesta crawled up the steps of the temple, not trusting herself to get close to the edge without falling down the cliff. Already the sun beaming down on her was making her weak and she needed to find shelter; a way to help herself. She cursed with every single inch. Every new and old agony as she dragged her body up toward the great doorway into the ruin.

Nesta had only been twice to the Hewn city but despite the obvious differences - the openness of this place, it reminded her so much of the home of the Court of Nightmares. There were _whispers_ in the rock here. Memories. And horrors. The stone was _alive._ Imprinted by a sadness and death that she keenly felt. This wasn’t simply a ruin, it was a graveyard.

At the top of the steps, Nesta collapsed on her stomach. A glance back down showed a trail of blood left in her wake and she knew that unless she could get the arrow out, she would die up here, likely soon. There was no such thing as immortality she laughed bitterly to herself. Everything eventually died. Out of the burning sun, she sat propped against the arch holding up what was left of a partial roof. With every breath she took, it seemed the arrow head worked its way in deeper. Until Nesta could almost feel it pressing against her skin at the front. She’d spent time watching the healers work at the front lines. She’d seen them delicately patch up the tiny wing tears. Seen them treat arrow wounds. Nesta had also seen the varying ways they’d removed them as well.

Before she could convince herself of how terrible an idea it was, she threw her shoulder against the stone and screamed so loud that the mountain itself seemed to shake in answer. The shaft of the arrow had collided with the rock and the head was now piercing her chest, visible just beneath her collarbone. The first time she touched it she passed out and woke up face first, black glassy stone cutting up her face. The second time, her hands shook but she stayed conscious and though it made her cry out, though it made her groan and tremble and roar, she pulled it out an inch. The next time she managed another two. And when it finally came free, she swore to never complain about Cassian’s insistence on armour again.

The wound oozed blood down her chest and though she could finally begin to feel a flicker of power at her fingertips, Nesta didn’t have a magic to heal. There were few Fae who could. It was considered a sacred gift, and her power was currently, raw, violent destruction.

Nestamade it to her feet, keeping weight off her injured ankle and bracing herself on the wall. The roof was mostly missing beyond the great arching doorway and a white light shone down on a forest of tree, roots and strange grasses and wildflowers of such staggering, blisteringly beautiful colours that it made her breath painfully hitch. Nesta could only think that Elain would love it. That she would give her most precious possessions to see this wild garden. Perhaps in time, the shadow that always followed Elain might be able to share this place with her.

The segments of wall that remained standing inside the temple were decorated with stunning murals. Pictures depicting ancient Illyrian battles. Drawings of the mountain city and it’s crater home, though the pathways were not stone, but fire, flowing like rivers in place of streets.

Weakly she continued. Elain would have probably be able to mix a poultice from the plants growing here, and Feyre would no doubt sprout her wings and fly down to the ground spewing forth starlight and flames to free her mate. But Nesta couldn’t even winnow properly. While Amren had given her texts and books of learning, she’d clung to her Human romance novels. She’d been so hatefully resistant of her new found abilities that she’d purposefully remained ignorant; learning only just enough to keep her magic in check. Only _just_ enough. As she crept along, blood seeping from her wounds, trailing in slow droplets left on leaves and petals, her strength began to fade and Nesta thought of them; her sisters. Thought of how much she loved and missed them. Sometimes she even missed those nights when they shared a bed and blanket because while they’d nothing of their own, they’d always had each other. She thought of Cassian, of how much her death would make him suffer; of how much he already suffered. Nesta knew he would blame himself. The curse of responsibility was that he would see this as his doing, despite the hand of doom being hers, and hers alone.

Unable to continue, Nesta sat down in the grass and for a moment, marvelled at it’s beauty; how life had sprung up in the remains of a cold, broken thing and was flourishing. All it had taken was time, and a little light.

Nesta didn’t feel her eyes closing as her life ebbed onto the grass, and the pain became a memory.


	16. Chapter 16

A voice was calling her name. A desperate, wrenching cry that tore at her very soul but Nesta was just so very tired. It had been so hard to function at all after the war. There had been no rest. Stumbling from one battle to another. Fighting for the right to simply be left alone. So she would lay here in this place; body a distant memory and pain forgotten. But the voices continued chanting her name like a prayer. Pleading with her to stay. She was important. She was loved. She needed to come back to them. For a second, it sounded like Cassian, but it was difficult to tell. One moment it was his voice and the next it was Elain calling to her.

Something warm touched her face and Nesta cracked an eye open.

“Fey..re?” her voice was so broken and distorted Nesta didn’t recognize herself. She cracked and crackled like an old crone. The blurry figure crept closer, dark wings blocking the light and casting Nesta in shadow. The sun was going down and the entire ruin was draped in firelight.

“ _Nesta_!”

A face came into full view and Nesta blinked stupidly. Certain she was delirious.

Masha put her hand against Nesta’s cheek and tapped it lightly. She was slowly coming into sharper focus and Nesta could see cuts all over her face and arms, and blood on her wings. Though they were no longer limp.

“I thought…” Nesta started to say but tears took the words before the came. “…your _wings_. They clipped…”

“They’ve clipped them before. Though, I’ve never had to make repairs while falling to certain death. Could have done without _that_ ,” she laughed nervously.

Nesta tried to move but everything hurt. Her shoulder was on fire; the blood in her veins felt like ice.

“How?” Nesta wheezed.

Masha leaned over her and put her hands on Nesta’s wound, her pendant swinging free. The girl sucked in a breath closing her eyes to concentrate. And the black stone hanging around her neck - the one that Nesta had taken as a simple heirloom began to glow softly; a green light emanating from it. Instantly, the pain in her shoulder, her chest, her ankle, it was _less_. There, but it wasn’t the agony it was. She had healed her. Healers even among High Fae were rare. They would claim such a magic was a gift from the Gods themselves, and Nesta had never heard of an Illyrian using healing magic. They believed themselves bred only for war, killing. No wonder she’d been so willing to fight with them.

“You have a _siphon_?” She gasped as Masha sat back.

“I told you, I helped out my father with the wounded. He’d initially hoped I might end up joining the new ranks of female fighters,” she grinned, and sighed, “Though, I never like the idea of going to war, and I’m really bad at following orders,”

“How did you get here? Are they…”

“Still in the city? Yeah, I came over the top. Got lucky I wasn’t spotted,” she took Nesta’s boot off. Checking her ankle. Gingerly she rolled it back and forth, checking it’s movements. “I noticed the blood on the steps. You made it pretty far with these wounds _and_ a broken ankle. Very few males would have the gall to get an arrow out the way you managed,”

Nesta sat up on her elbows, no longer hearing the girl.

 _Cassian_? She reached for him along that tether binding them, and joy, intense, blinding joy surged back. Nesta smiled, beaming so wide that Masha’s eyebrows rose.

“So, if you’re up to it in a while, I was kinda thinking I wanted to see that trick again,” Nesta scrunched her face in confusion.

“Trick?” She asked.

“Yeah, the one where you look at someone and they die screaming in a spiraling pillar of fiery death,”

“Help me up,” Nesta snorted, extending her hand.

Masha helped her hobble outside and they walked as far as the edge. Nesta looked down into the gardens were Cassian was still kneeling where they’d left him, chained and defeated. She looked at him, wondering if he could see her. The dozens of camp fires that had burned the night before had dwindled to a handful and they flared in the darkness, glimmering like yellow stars.

“Can you get me down?”

“In a few days, maybe, even healing them, it takes time. My landing here wasn’t exactly controlled, either. There’s less roof than there was. I couldn’t carry you,”

Nesta looked down the slope. Trying to contemplate whether or not she’d be able to climb it. The black stone was almost invisible in the dark. But during the day the Illyrian’s below would see her and likely fill her with arrows even if she _didn’t_ fall to her death. Nesta needed to get down, safely and without getting shot again.

She looked down again along the cliff and Nesta remembered the dream. The cliff. The mist. Again the voice from echoed on the wind, telling her to fly. Though there was no mist here. Which was unfortunate. That might have been useful.

“It’s getting cold,” Masha put drapped an arm over Nesta’s shoulders. “I’ll light a fire. Nothing to eat, but we’ll be warm,”

She didn’t feel cold, but Nesta let herself be led back inside anyway, her ankle was tender but Masha took her weight.


	17. Chapter 17

Daylight broke after a long dreamless night. Nesta slept -albeit badly, rolling and tossing, but sleep did finally come in the early hours of the dark morning. She dreamt of mist and fire. Dreamt that the city was burning and Michel was screaming. Pleading for a life that had no longer been his the moment he’d attacked them. Something in Nesta shuddered and thrashed at the memory of his breath in her ear.

“You need to see this!” Masha hurried her to her feet, down the steps and outside to the ledge, pointing down. Nesta hadn’t had time to fix her hair and it billowed in every direction. “Do you _see_?” Masha pointed.

Nesta’s human eyes would have strained, but her Fae eyes saw it all clearly. There were now others down there with Cassian; all on their knees, and they hadn’t congregated to pray.

“Executions?”

“Four Lords, two guardians,”

Nesta noticed the position they were all in; a semi circle in front of Cassian, lined up for him to watch. Michel _hated_ Cassian, and Nesta was beginning to think that had she not been alone when his warriors landed at the camp, there would have been a different outcome and he might not have been so easily dissuaded. There was an angle to this that Nesta didn’t currently see.

“What do you know about Lord Michel?”

“He rules one of the largest camps. Two sons, a surprisingly good reputation, actually,” Masha shrugged.

“Well, he’s plotting for _war_ ,” Nesta sneered. As if the Illyrian people hadn’t suffered enough that he would throw them into a fight that would fracture them further. For all she would complain of him, Rhysand was not a force to be taken lightly. If the Lords led a rebellion and it came to fighting, Rhysand would make it hurt. No one benefited from that outcome.

“Every camp in Illyria is geared for war…we are _bred_ for someone else’s fighting. The camps wouldn’t blink at the opportunity to fight for themselves. Even if it cost them their lives. They’ve died for far less,”

Nesta didn’t argue that point. Unfortunately, she knew it was true.

“You said your wings had been clipped before?” she tried changing the subject.

“Yes,” Masha sank down to on her heels. She looked so small - so childlike. Despite the fact that statistically she could have been far older than Nesta. “My brothers organized it. My father was on a job in Velaris - he didn’t find out until he came back. He kicked them as far as the foot of the _steppes_ ,”

“Your own brothers did that to you?” Nesta couldn’t wipe the shock and horror from her voice.

“My father was planning on training me to fight. I’d have been sent to war…” Masha swallowed. “They _thought_ they were saving my life. I don’t hate them for that. They loved me, but they were desperate,”

Nesta felt her chest constrict. There were too many parallels.

“Where are they now? Your brothers?”

“They died with my father,”

“I’m sorry,”

“Don’t be,” Masha stood brushing herself down. “Do you have a plan? If all the Lords in Illyria suddenly turn up dead, I’ve no idea what’ll happen,”

“It’ll be chaos. Likely a civil war regardless,” Nesta admitted. Knowing that it wasn’t simply Cassian who’s life was in her hands now.

“So, what do we do?”

It was the question that frightened her. Nesta had spent so long fighting against the power she wielded, that when when it came to a situation like this - where knowing what she were capable of would be all the difference, she could only stare blankly at her hands.

She _didn’t_ know what to do.

_“Fly,”_

Her mind kept drifting to the voice in the dream. To the mist gathering at her feet and the phantom that told her to jump, even though she’d fall to her death. Feyre could give herself wings. All that Nesta could give herself was a headache and an eating disorder.

“I don’t know. If I’d wings I could fly down there…”

“You’re a High Fae,” Masha narrowed her eyes. “You were made in the cauldron of creation. I doubt there’s _anything_ you can’t do,”

Nesta didn’t like being reminded of it. Sometimes she could feel it’s dark depths tugging at her soul. Amren had told her she’d taken something from it, something powerful and valuable that it hadn’t been willing to part with. Nesta didn’t know if that were true, but she definitely knew that something had been left behind in those waters. She sighed, frowning, her brow crinkling in way that would have earned her mother’s ire - she’d never attract a wealthy husband with a face wracked by wrinkles.

“You actually think I could just sprout wings?”

“I don’t know, have you even _tried_?”

Nesta bit her lip and huffed at the bald faced accusation in Masha’s tone. She _hadn’t_ actually. There was a lot she hadn’t done. Or even attempted.

“No,” Nesta deadpanned.

Masha narrowed her eyes again and Nesta glanced back at the cliffs edge - suddenly concerned that the girl was going to push her off and prove she was right. But she had to admit to herself, claiming she couldn’t do something without trying, there was no way to back that up in an argument.

But … there wasn’t the time to test out the extent of her power now.

Nesta drew a deep breath. Knowing what she would need to do.

“I’m going to need to find cover and climb down,”


	18. Chapter 18

The rock was pitch black. Sharp edges of glassy obsidian that cut through skin and cloth like butter. But Nesta knew she was going to need to climb down regardless of the blood or pain. Let the stone cut her flesh to ribbons if it wished, it didn’t matter. It didn’t change anything. One way or the other, her future was at the bottom. Death or life. It was there. If she could reach Cassian without falling, the distraction she generated would give Masha the opportunity to make a landing with her healing wings without finding herself full of arrows at the same time. Nesta rolled her shoulder and feet. The pain was gone and on her chest only a scar remained.

She sat while Masha ran black ash and charcoal through her hair and covered every inch of skin that was exposed. To give her a chance to get down unnoticed. She tugged at the ragged red tunic she wore. Filthy as it was, ripped and shredded, it stood out regardless of anything that could be applied to it. Masha offered her the leathers she was still wearing but they were too large and slipped constantly.

“You’ll have to go down bare,”

“I beg your pardon?” Nesta croaked, eyes wide. Unsure she’d heard her right. “ _What_??”

“The rest of what you’re wearing should be dark enough if you stick to the shadows, but…”

“ _Yes,_ yes, I _understand_ ,” Nesta said, her voice like coarse gravel. She’d known already that the Fae didn’t care so much about such things. Immodesty was a Human specific attribute but it still terrified her.

“I can give you my bindings?” Masha laughed.

“Bindings?”

“For your breasts?” Masha laughed, questioning Nesta’s sanity for a moment.

It was a single band of dark leather about five inches wide and long enough to be wrapped around the chest twice; with it’s ends laced. Nesta had never felt so exposed, but….she wasn’t embarrassed. Honestly, it felt a little thrilling. Freeing.

“Do all Illyrian females wear these?”

“No, but if you’re flying at speed having your breasts bounce up and down can throw you off. As well as being _very_ unpleasant,” she pulled the laces tout again and Nesta’s spine stiffened.

Standing there, covered in charcoal and soot, Nesta felt a little ridiculous.

“Cold?”

“ _No_ ,” and Nesta realised it was true. She felt a lot of things, but cold wasn’t one of them. Her hands and arms were black. Like a shade. Or a demon. A _ghost_.

“Illyrian males do the same when hunting at night,” Masha explained. “Hunting in full armour is considered cowardly, so they’d strip down and paint themselves the colour of the night sky,” she said wistfully.

A _hunter_.

The girl shredded Nesta’s tunic to strips and wrapped her hands against the razor sharp stone. Nesta found herself staring down a a long drop.

“If you start down from here, head to your left, there look to be more handholds down that way. Are you a confident climber?”

Nesta had been forced to climb alongside Cassian in the wilds which had been a steep learning curve, but this was so very different. She was alone. There was no one to catch her if she fell. Nesta told herself not to look and swung her legs over the edge looking for a foothold. She was small enough that if she climbed slowly, she might remain unnoticed.

“It’s no longer important. I’ll either fall or I won’t,” Nesta grunted as she lowered herself down. The hard black stone ate into her fingers immediately and she bit down against the urge to move any faster. If she did, it would mean falling, she knew that for certain. The weeks spent fighting her way through the elements with Cassian had changed her physically. Despite her thinness, she was no longer the soft handed manor Lady she’d once been and she was grateful for that at least as she carefully clambered down.

Nesta was vaguely aware that though she was obscured now - nothing more than a trick of the eye slithering down the rock face, the sun would be moving above and regardless of how she careful she was, midday would betray her.

Sweat began to run down her arms and her hands were already bloody by the half way mark. Nesta could only think that this was an entirely Feyre thing to do and that she’d obviously lost her mind thinking _she_ could get away with it. She laughed silently as she moved to the next hold, but exhaustion had begun to set in and Nesta’s foot slipped.

She froze, her heartbeat hammering in her ears. Beads of black sweat running down her face and chest, soaking in at her waist. The rock pittered against the cliff as it fell, echoing off the rock wall as it went down. Nesta closed her eyes tight and winced, biting her lip. She didn’t even so much as breath. Waiting for the whistle of an arrow; waiting to hear the shouts below that would signal she’d been spotted. Nesta waited, and waited but nothing happened. Silence. She hissed through clenched teeth as her muscles began to cramp and she’d no choice but to continue moving.

Nesta honestly hadn’t considered ever reaching the bottom in one piece. In the back of her mind had been the image of her falling to her death so she’d pushed it all aside; forcing herself not to think of any of it. As it was, she was already exhausted and like the clock hand of doom, the sun had started burning it’s way across the cliff, counting down the hours before archers shot her down. Nesta knew now that she had little choice in the matter, she sped up, thinking of Cassian.

“You… and your prick High Lord…owe me _forever_ ,” Nesta snarled to no one. “I have been insulted,” she moved her feet, catching her small toes in a crevice, “I have been stabbed,” she moved down another few inches her arms shaking. “I have been assaulted,” her breathing was shaky now and her lungs burned. “And if I make it out of all of this alive, I will never let either of you forget it,”

The relief of touching ground was only surpassed by the bolt of fear as Nesta remembered that this was where the the Lords warriors presently patrolled, swiftly followed by the screaming of every muscle in her body. She crawled on her hands and knees in under a bush and tried to resist the urge to laugh. She’d _survived_. Nesta Archeron had climbed down a cliff. From where she’d come down she could see Cassian clearly. He was tired, and where the chain bit into his flesh was red raw and badly bruised but he was in better condition than the other Lords. They’d been beaten badly. Their wings broken and two of them through they were still on their knees, didn’t look conscious. Only the city guardians looked unmolested.

Nesta flexed her fingers and grimaced at the blood and dirt and the pain. Her hands were in desperate need of treatment. But the throbbing was tolerable - entirely manageable. In the last few days Nesta had definitely felt far worse, and to a certain extent it had numbed her. The pain was still there but to do what she needed to, she’d pushed it aside. Just like her feelings, she realised. Her trauma. She counted the warriors on patrol with the fixation of a waiting snake. There were less than she expected. Which worried her more than if the city had been crawling with them.

To go to all the trouble of torturing Cassian, would mean that Michel was somewhere here to enjoy it. And Nesta knew that he would not be alone.


	19. Chapter 19

Nesta huddled beneath the leaves as the sun moved lower and lower. There was no plan now that she was here, watching warriors pace the grounds nervous and blind to the fact that she was sitting in a bush twenty feet from Cassian and the rest. But something was different now. Elain had once told her, that her will had already been an otherworldly force before she’d ever been made Fae. Looking again at her hands she could feel the power in them. It coursed through her blood. Flowed with her breath. With a thought, the city itself was animated with its embers; awakened to her. Deep in the earth, an eternal heat emanated. Living fire. So much power in such selfish, _unworthy_ hands. She _stank._ Stank _of dirt_ and blood; of _weakness_. And if any of Michel’s warriors were familiar with the smell of Nesta Archeron’s sweaty armpits, she was done for.

Cassian’s head was down but she could see his eyes roving about under the mass of hair that had fallen over his face; he could tell she was here. And if she closed her eyes and stepped out into the unknown, she knew she would find her way to him. But more than that, Cassian was first and foremost, her friend.

Freeing them all would be difficult. She could melt the chains with magic but the smell would likely travel and Nesta doubted her control. Fire, heat, it was such a wild temperamental kind of power. Using it often felt like opening a dam where this would require care and precision she’d no experience using.

Cassian knelt alone; out in the open without cover, where she couldn’t reach him, so Nesta crept through the underbrush behind one of the conscious Illyrian Lords presently waiting for death. Branches scratching at her bare shoulders. She examined the manacles he wore; hands bound behind his back, wings twitching and spasming, wracked with pain…and anger. They required a key to unlock.

Concealed behind the bulk of those wings, Nesta inched forward and touched his hands.

“Do not move,”

The male in fact went so incredibly still, Nesta considered that he’d died of shock, right there. He lowered his head in acknowledgement.

Nesta touched the mechanism and concentrated. She visualised a key turning in lock. Imagined the pins and mechanisms inside them sliding and spinning into place. Magic flickered from the tips of her fingers like static electricity and there was a satisfying click. Nesta’s eyes widened, stunned that it has worked. That she’d simply willed it, and it had happened. The male held the cuffs in place as she retreated. Moving to the next Lord.

“Ignore me, my wings are broken. _Kill them_ ,” he’d hissed under his breath as Nesta continued to work, trying to focus.

“I shall kill _you_ if you do not be silent,” the manacles unlocked and Nesta paused another moment. “Your ability to fly doesn’t mean a thing. They do not make you a warrior. They do not make you a leader,”

And he went utterly quiet.

The guardians came next, though they said nothing and gave no indication that they’d heard her or detected her presence. The two unconscious Lords however made her hesitate. The tension from their chains she was sure was helping them stay upright, but if she didn’t free them before fighting broke out they would be quite likely killed.

She’d taken a number of risks today, and Nesta was confident there would be more to come, spurred on by a streak of successes and lucky breaks.

Of the two slumped Illyrians, one of them seemed to sit straighter than the others and Nesta made quick work of his chains as he wavered but her hands had just touched the metal of the final Lord when footsteps sent her skittering back into the greenery like a rabbit. She covered her mouth, suddenly afraid her breathing could be heard.

Cassian looked up as Michel stalked out between them with a handful of guards.

“Scouts say that there’s a great deal of blood on the steps of the temple, Cassian, surely, if she’s still alive, it won’t be for very long, now,”

Cassian lifted his head; eyes boring into his. A dead stare.

“You’re wasting your breath,” he said quietly. “I have nothing more to say to you,”

Where threats and insults failed to get a rise from him, the deathly calm in Cassian’s voice sent the male into a rage.

“I will _unify_ us! We will be _free_. Do you not understand that?”

Nesta suddenly understood. Michel didn’t want to torture Cassian, not at the moment, no, Cassian was alive because there was still something Michel wanted from him. She remembered being stabbed. Remember his breath on her face. She knew Cassian well enough to know that if there’d ever been any hope of anything before, there wasn’t now.

Michel crouched down in front of him.

“If you take my hand and swear an oath to drop the city wards when I ask, I will send someone to fetch her,” His ambitions had grown. Freedom was no longer his goal. He’d found an opportunity in Cassian’s predicament and sought to capitalize on it. “I will have her wounds taken care of. You will be free to go anywhere you wish with your mate,”

“Nesta would slit my throat herself, mate or not,”

“I don’t think she would be that ungrateful,” he laughed.

“I swore an oath to the High Lord, and the High Lady of the Night Court. I swore an oath to _her_ , and I would deserve every ounce of hell Nesta would rain down on me if I broke any of them,”

Caught somewhere between anger and fear, Nesta found herself again something to be used. Another tool in a males little game. Another pawn against those she loved. In the darkness she could feel it beckoning to her; the black waters of oblivion. Swirling in it was power unchained - the power of death and life, and under her feet molten rock deep in the mountain called to her. Offered itself to her in supplication. _Command me, Lady._ It trilled. Called forth by her bubbling rage. Her endless wrath.

Nesta stood from her hiding place, Cassian’s eyes widening; red hot power crackling up her arms. Beneath them Calcarum _shook_. The Illyrians staggered, as fissures cracked up through the stone; some of them took to the air even as smoke and heat and gases rose. The air released was so toxic it plucked Fae from the air and dozens of Illyrian’s fell unconscious back to the earth. Their eyes watered and the warriors with Michel gagged.

“ _I AM NO ONES LEVERAGE_ ,” Nesta roared.

And the ground exploded around them. Liquid fire spewing up from the earth.

The volcano answering her call.


	20. Chapter 20

Chaos descended with the sun as Nesta stood hypnotized by the devastation - by the _nightmare_ she’d summoned upon the Illyrian’s holy city. Yet as horrified as she was, there was still a small part of her that claimed satisfaction in the wanton destruction. It rejoiced in how the world shattered before it and Nesta felt sick to imagine herself having fed such an evil inside her. This - this was not what she’d wanted. And it’s victory cries were premature, because in the face of natural disaster, Michel did the only thing he _could_ do - he _fled_.And if he escaped and all the others died here, then it wouldn’t matter either way, because all that they feared would come to pass regardless. Michel would be the last Lord in a leaderless, angry Illyria. He would wage war on the Night Court and Feyre and Rhysand would find their allies suddenly thin among the Illyrian peoples.

Nesta raced to Cassian as the other Lords slipped their chains and hoisted their unconscious brethren up. A stream of fire erupted on the far side of the city and Nesta watched, dismayed as it cut through the liveable section they’d called the Avery. Likely, where the guardians and the last denizens of the city had been residing. Their homes. Their homes were burning. And it was _her_ doing. Nesta’s eyes watered and she didn’t know if it was sadness or noxious fumes that were the cause.

Freed from chains, the first thing Cassian did was pull her into his arms.

“I’m sorry - I’m _sorry_ ,” he could only repeat as Nesta’s hell came to Prythian and the city blazed.

“We all have things to atone for,” Nesta looked to the gate, to the crippled Lords attempting to flee. Knowing that without their wings, even if they reached the far side, they would be going nowhere but down. “The Lords need to escape,”

Cassian scrunched his eyes closed clenching his teeth as if he were in pain.

“You can’t ask me to leave you,” he pleaded. His voice cracking. He could feel it. Feel her intention. She would have him help them first. “I won’t be able to get them all to the ground in time,” he said. ‘But I can save you!’ Were the words he omitted.

And then shadow stuck the earth at his side and Cassian whirled, expecting danger only to be met with Masha who was gaping at the city.

“ _Nesta_ , when you said ’ _diversion_ ’,” she hissed disbelievingly.

“I know. _I know_ ,” Nesta said ruefully but Cassian was staring at the girl, open-mouthed.

“ _You’re alive,_ ” he breathed, looking at her as though she were a phantom. He’d seen her fall, same as Nesta. Seen her wings flapping uselessly as she vanished.

“And yet _, not_ fireproof,” Masha wiped at her face. Ash was falling now and it covered them like snow.

Cassian took Nesta’s hand in his, holding her tightly. He had no intention of letting her out of his sight again. But Masha _was_ right. The city was emptying. Shouts and screams as Illyrians scurried to the gate on foot. Perhaps there were others who could fly; others who’d evaded Michel that might be able to help _,_ but they needed to go.

“I _know-”_ Nestasqueezed Cassian’s hand acknowledging his fears. “-but there are more important things at stake _,_ ” Nesta touched his cheek. Her fingertips streaking blood and ash to his jaw before she cupped his face. There was a wild, reckless love in his eyes. He would do anything for her if she asked it then because Cassian didn’t see the destruction she’d wrought on the city. Didn’t see the evil she carried inside her. He loved her. And it made him blind.

Masha grabbed Nesta’s arm and _pulled,_ shattering the moment. They took off running, just as another quake struck and the ground opened up again; a glowing red hot crack circling the temple as the crag housing the heart of Calcarum _shifted;_ the ruins at it’s peak vanishing from sight as the rock beneath it crumbled and it began to slip down in molten earth. As it was swallowed. Nesta turned her head away from the sight, her heart breaking at what she’d done. The great stone arches guiding the path through the gardens from the gate to the temple were falling as they ran and Nesta wished for once that she could winnow. That she could just magic them from this place.

When they made it to the labyrinth outside, Nesta realised she had no idea where to go.

“ _Cassian_?” she cried, suddenly panicked. “Which way?”

“Follow me!”

He raced ahead, leading them blindly in the dark; the only light an ominous yellow glow behind them. The smell of sulfur was suffocating and Nesta’s throat burned with every gasping, coughed breath. Above her, stones rained down from the tunnel ceiling and she covered herself with her arms as Masha cursed loudly in Illyrian.

They emerged into moonlight, the ash cloud overhead not yet having swallowed it and Nesta skidded to a halt.

There were still so many. So many wounded and injured, so many trapped and unable to fly. Without sparing a look at Cassian or Nesta, Masha sped by them, grabbing a male - who _shrieked_ \- by his robes as she passed and toppling them both over the edge; his screams fading into the night. Cassian actually laughed, running passed Nesta and doing precisely the same, though the Lord in question was now expecting it. Nesta counted the seconds as the mountain around them growled and shuddered. Masha took precisely a minute to reach the ground below and return, snatching another wounded Illyrian as she dived into the clouds. Cassian took about twice that, though it didn’t slip by Nesta’s notice that Masha looked agonized and that she took the smaller males. Her wings were trembling on the third trip and she didn’t return for a forth. Cassian was sweating as he came in for the last male leaving Nesta alone.

The fire still called to her. Even amid the roaring and rending of stone, she could hear it. The earth itself speaking to her. Answering her rage with another rumble. She closed her eyes and tried to ignore it. There was still so much resentment and anger in her. She’d clung to it because in the dark of the night, in the cold, that had been the only fire she could tolerate. Combining that with magic was the danger. Her unresolved feelings were the danger.

Behind her a deafening crack sounded and something hard collided with Nesta, sending her sprawling to the ground. She opened an eye, blinking through the dust and a tattooed arm greeted her; Cassian’s body sprawled over her own. His wings a shield. Nesta coughed.

“Cassian?” she wheezed. But there was no response. “CASSIAN!”

But there was blood on his face and rock pinning his wings.

Beneath them, the shelf had begun to fracture.


	21. Chapter 21

Nesta yelled, fingers stinging and muscles tearing as she heaved a slab from Cassian’s wing. The ground was breaking apart, and pieces of it were falling down the mountain. Ricochetting off its face with thunderous claps.

“ _Nesta?_?”

The sound of his voice sent her to her knees, and Nesta scrambled around to face him. Cassian was trying to lift himself onto his arms but half the cliff had him pinned down; two enormous pieces flattening him. There was blood on his lips and Nesta felt talons rake her very soul at the scream he let loose when the movement pulled against his wings and the sensitive membrane ripped like paper.

“Please stay still, _please_ ,” she pleaded. “Please, _Cassian_!” Nesta tasted the black salt on her lips as the tears began to flow.

There was another bang and the stone shuddered.

“It doesn’t matter,” he said. She reached again for the rocks but he took her hands as the ground moved. “ _Stop_ ,” he hushed. “It’s okay,” Nesta’s eyes widened, frought with panic but Cassian sighed. “It’s _okay_ ,” he repeated.

“I could try and winnow,”

“The city has wards, Nes, you can’t,”

Nesta couldn’t fathom how it was they kept reaching this same precipice. With Cassian in her arms. Sacrificing himself for her. As if she were worth his life. Elain, Feyre - no one was here now to save them. And he _was_ dying. Something in him had been crushed and there was no longer pain in his face, only a great weariness. All that was left after a lifetime of fighting. After hundreds of years of bloodshed. The Lord of Bloodshed they called him. And Nesta now wondered how much of that blood was his own.

“But he’s getting away. We aren’t done yet. You keep trying to leave me,” Nesta had little experience bargaining for anything, had never lowered herself to begging, but she would now. If it bought Cassian a minute more with her, she would do anything. All her supposed power. All her apparent strength and she couldn’t help him in this.

“The other Lords won’t forget what happened here. Even if he wages war, there are few warriors that’ll follow him now,” He brushed a calloused thumb over her trembling fingers. “I am always - will always _be_ at your side,” Cassian whispered to her. She could hear the strain in his voice. A pain beyond physical. He looked to her again; his lips pulling his mouth into a soft smile. And Nesta realised with horror that it was contentment. As if this was a satisfactory end to his story.

“I didn’t ever hope to find you,” His eyes were losing focus and Nesta whimpered, seeing him fade.

“Look at me!” she said. A command that the soldier in Cassian responded to as he refocused. “You won’t die for me,” Nesta snarled, her brows knit with determination. You _won’t_!“

She would give it all. All that she was, all the dark power taken from the Cauldron. Everything she could be. Because there was no future without him. Once, she’d been prepared to die with him in the face of her own helplessness. But that Nesta Archeron was gone; that was not who she was anymore. If this was the world in all its cruelty, she would change it.

” _Don’t look at me like that -_ “ Nesta grit out. ”- like you’re okay with this,“

"A soldier -” he swallowed, his breathing now shallow, “- a _soldier_ should die for what he believes in,” was all Cassian said, closing his eyes.

And all of Calcarum could have exploded and Nesta would have frozen the fire then with just a _look,_ and a single word, tempered like steel. “ _No_ ,” Nesta hissed, calling to the power inside her. Reaching her hands and arms down into it. Her magic seethed. It was violent and volatile; it was the power to unmake the world. To pull it apart. Raw and raging. It was not the power to heal. But Nesta knew that she would tear out what she needed and if she couldn’t find it within, she would tear it from somewhere else. Nesta looked toward the sealed gate, and the city burning beyond. The city was alive. A garden watered with the blood of her mate’s people. It would never die, because it’s magic was the power of the earth itself.

“I don’t deserve your belief, but I will try to be worthy of it,” she breathed.

And Nesta put her hands on his shoulders, above his wings and focused all she had on the bond between them. In the darkness in her mind, Cassian was a bright, blinding titan; a glowing spirit of fire and a will of stone. She’d been Fae for some time now and Nesta had seen the night sky glisten as if pierced by diamonds. Seen colours and shades of light that a Human could never hope to comprehend. But when she looked at him, looked beyond the tattooed flesh and the scars, she saw a beauty that left her speechless. When the cold had threatened Nesta it was the burning heat of _his_ soul that chased away the chill. Cassian’s heart was the burning heart of the Illyrian people and no matter what it took she would keep it beating.

Nesta’s voice rang into the mountain. Her screaming summons pounding in her ears. And into herself she called all the magic, all the fire and heat and strength she could hold. She thought of the garden in the temple. The life that had sprung up from the death and ruin of the last battle that had destroyed the city and Nesta held in a breath, drawing it all in to her. Finding the bond between them, and channelling it into Cassian.

Nesta heard his cries, felt the pain of the magic she pushed into him; a blazing flood, coursing through them both. Nesta’s veins burned with it and Cassian thrashed. Then the world tilted and Nesta blinked, coming back to reality as both her and Cassian began to slide. One side of the platform had disintegrated and they were falling now. The block that had held Cassian down tipped away into nothing, and Nesta threw herself over him, wrapping an arm under his chest as the ground vanished.

Air and debris blasted up and into Nesta’s face and hair. At some point it had come loose and now fanned out behind them as they plummeted.

“ _Fly_!”

Elain’s voice called to her on the wind and positioned between his wings, Nesta wrapped her legs around Cassian’s waist, locked her ankles at his stomach and envisioned wings; great wings spreading out behind her, slowing their descent. But still they continued to fall, passing through stinging cloud that ripped at her face and arms. She grit her teeth and clenched her eyes as the ground began to rush at them. And Nesta screamed. _Wings! Make me damn **wings**._

The sudden weight of Cassian hit her like a sack of flour. Her legs and back screamed as he pulled her toward the ground and she snaked a hand around and under his arm. Moments before they collided with the ground they shot forward, Cassian’s boots dragging in the dirt. They skidded to a halt and Nesta spat out grass as they were thrown apart.

“Cassian?” She coughed, crawling back to him. He groaned when she touched his face and Nesta laughed, throwing herself into her back. Above her the orange glow of the volcano was fading. It was returning to it’s long sleep. Drained of the rage that had woken it. There was no sign of the wings that had saved them.

“Nesta,” His fingers grazed her arm and she looked to Cassian; blood oozing from a wound over his eye and one of his wings peppered with cuts and tears but he was alive, staring at her. But his face, at first so placid began to tighten as his steady breathing quickened and he grasped at his chest.

“What did you…” Then Cassian screamed again and Nesta’s moment of relief and joy evaporated in a wave of sickness.

——————–

When Masha found them, the sun was rising and Cassian had been burning with a fever in the dark, Nesta curled into his side for the night. The sound of beating wings and the blast of wind woke her and she found herself lacking the strength to sit up; her body heavy and every muscle wracked with pain.

To Nesta’s dismay Masha wasn’t alone.

Rhysand’s court had come. Drawn by the earthquakes and the fire; Nesta’s handiwork visible all the way from Velaris. They’d winnowed and flown through the night to reach them. There were dozens of them; Fae and Illyrian from the smell. Nesta saw hands reaching for Cassian and she found herself snarling; her head spinning and vision blurring.

“Touch him and die!”

“They’re healers, Nesta,” Masha’s voice cooed to her. The girl put her hand on Nesta’s shoulder to push her back down, only to pull it back hissing with pain. Like she’d been burned.

“I’ll handle this,”

And Nesta knew that voice. Even without seeing him. Even though her world was entirely comprised now of bright light, shadow and the smell of strangers. She knew Rhysand had come with them.

“ _I want to speak with my sister_ ,” she whispered before passing out.


	22. Chapter 22

For once Nesta didn’t dream. It was a merciful blackness interrupted only by the scattered interlude of voices arguing, and the feeling of cold across her forehead. The moment she opened her eyes she regretted waking. She was lying on a cot in a tent; sick and weary. Muscles she didn’t know existed were screaming and she’d barely the energy to swallow.

“The city wards are down,” Amren’s voice rasped above her; her usual unamused tone drifting through the fog. “There are flickers of magic remaining, but it’s nothing more than embers,”

Calcarum was gone. There was nothing left of it. No more ruins. No gardens. The temple swallowed down into the mountain of fire. And it had been Nesta’s doing. She tried to speak but when she opened her mouth, nothing came out. Blackness swarmed her and the conversation moved on. When she opened her eyes again, awareness returning, more of the fog had cleared.

“I’ve spoken with the Illyrian girl outside and she says that the fever isn’t infection,” Amren added.

“He should be moved to the healers in Velaris then,”

“ _She_ doesn’t agree,”

“And you really think she knows better than the ten thousand years of experienced healers waiting in the city?”

“ _Yes_ ,” Through heavy eyes, Nesta watched Amren glare. As it was, there wasn’t a healer in Prythian that could do what Masha could. Nesta felt almost insulted on the girls behalf.

“And I’m sure the fact that she’s ordering Illyrian Lords around like children, and told you if you planned on executing her for disrespect that you should join the long queue - _that_ has _nothing_ to do with it,”

Nesta heard the smile in his words, Amren’s silent laugh, even as a jolt of icey fear solidified her shaky tongue and she realised who they’d been talking about.

 _“Cassian? Where’s Cassian?”_ Nesta managed to choke out, her mind rushing. She fumbled for the edge of her cot and tried to sit up while the borders of her vision darkened again and she gasped against the wave of nausea.

“He’s alive, no thanks to you. Though the same can’t be said for the dozens of dead Lords, _or_ _Calcarum_ ,” Rhysand said, standing over her; his arms crossed and his face devoid of anything close to humour.

Nesta recoiled as though physically slapped _,_ because he was right; because she was too weak to fight him on it. Amren however glowered at the High Lord in her stead, her mouth cut into a worrisome line. The one that spelled trouble.

“ _My_ plan was to kill them _all_ ,” Amren said in her defense, and Nesta watched Rhysand wither in the face of his second’s souring mood. “By my reckoning, this seems to be a compromise,” Amren said turning to her, and there was something in her silver eyes that left a warmth in Nesta’s chest. For the first time that she could remember, Nesta was genuinely grateful for the support.

“Would you excuse us, Amren,” And it wasn’t a request, it was a command. He glanced sternly at Nesta who was struggling to straighten up. “I believe we need to talk, _sister_ ,” And the effort it took to concentrate on those few words made Nesta dizzy. She’d never felt as weak.

Amren threw a look of caution at Rhysand; a warning to tread carefully, before swiftly exiting the tent.

Nesta resisted the urge to be sick as she swung one leg at a time over the edge of the cot and the damp cloth fell from her head into her lap. Her eyes widened as steam billowed off it. _A fever_. But it wasn’t hers, it was his. She could feel him burning even now.

“Where …is _Cassian_?” she strangled the words out again.

“What _happened_ to Cassian? Is the only question I’m interested in having answered,” The High Lord of the Night Court countered and Nesta wavered where she sat unable to respond.

The words to describe what she’d done in Calcarum to save him didn’t exist. It had been a _dream_. A nightmare that she barely even remembered; a collage of blood and fire. The feeling of falling into oblivion. Pain. She watched Rhysand grow frustrated at her silence. Beneath the often childish humour and relaxed demeanor, he was anxious.

“If you don’t start speaking,” he grit his teeth as the seconds passed, “I will _pull it out of you_ ,”

His words made her insides squirm, despite knowing that even now, with Cassian’s life hanging in the balance, Rhysand would never actually do that to her. Knowing that even if he tried, he’d never succeed. But Nesta could feel Cassian on the other side of the bond. How he suffered. The searing heat scorching her.

“Then pull it out of me,” Nesta said, stiffening.

Rhysand scratched at his head.

“ _What did you just say?”_

“I don’t remember what happened, I don’t-” her voice broke. “- understand what I did, so if it helps Cassian, I won’t stop you,” Nesta said, swallowing bile. She would do anything. Even let Rhysand do this. _Rip my mind apart. Break me into pieces. I will endure._ The words she didn’t dare speak out loud.

The High Lord seemed to suddenly deflate; all the anger leaving his face as he sat down staring at her, seeing something new.

“You would _let_ me into your mind?”

“If it helps him,” Nesta admitted, though it strained her to say, “I…can’t remember,”

And Rhysand smiled at her, a soft, genuine, gentle thing.

“Okay,”

She braced herself, not sure what to expect, so she prepared herself for pain.

Walls had been easy for Nesta. The first thing Amren had thought her. Blocking off her mind, her emotions. To raise a barrier between herself and the power she wielded. It had been like breathing to her. Without trying, Nesta’s mind was an impenetrable, invulnerable fortress. Not even the illusions of a High Lord had worked on her; not even when she’d been Human. She was good at protecting herself. Very good. Too good, perhaps. Amren had dubbed her a natural, and Nesta knew enough to know that Amren wouldn’t bother with idle praise. Lowering that defense was a terrifying experience. Letting people in, usually left her hurt.

Though she noticed when his face went pale. When beads of sweat started to trickle down his forehead.

“ _You_ destroyed Calcarum _?_ ”

The walls in her mind came up so fast and so hard that Rhysand winced, clutching his head as she staggered him. The first thing he’d seen on a tour of her head had been the image of her, crackling with power, the volcano erupting around her.

He stood abruptly.

“They’ll demand your head for this,” He ran fingers through his hair, knowing how Feyre would take this. “Since you’ve come into my Court all that’s followed you has been disaster,” he hissed.

“Thatis _not_ fair to say,” Nesta lifted her chin but felt her hands tighten on the blankets. She was sweating excessively. “I didn’t _ask_ for any of this. I didn’t ask to be violated or exiled from my home to a place where I wasn’t welcome _,_ ” she pointed a finger at him, “You didn’t want me here. Neither did Feyre,”

“ _Cassian did,”_ he said, “Defended you. No matter how hard you pushed him away. You didn’t want anyone around and we tried, believe me,”

“I barely _knew_ you - barely knew Cassian,” Nesta snapped. “Did you think because he was my mate that it would suddenly make all my nightmares go away? That I’d be able to look into my own bath without vomiting? Is that what happened with Feyre? She woke up in the Night Court and all her hurts had miraculously vanished?”

Rhysand blinked stupidly at her and it struck Nesta; a thought so violent and unimaginable that she could scarcely believe it. It drained the venom from her tongue instantly.

“You didn’t know?” she whispered. Watching the muscles in Rhysand’s jaw twitch.

“No, I didn’t,” he admitted.

Nesta snorted. It bubbled forth before she could reign it in and moments later she was laughing. It was ridiculous. Was he actually blind? Mor knew. Amren knew. And Nesta had suspicions that Feyre knew too.

“ _You are useless,”_ she snarled at him, silencing him. Her tongue finding the weakest point in his armour and cutting deep.

When everyone with eyes had seen it, and Rhysand was standing there, a Fae mind-reader of unspeakable power, and he hadn’t. Nesta could only be impressed that Cassian had managed to keep that from him.

Rhysand sat back down again; the new knowledge a weight he couldn’t shoulder. And Nesta could see him piece it all together. Amren hadn’t wanted him moved. Neither had the Illyrian with them. Had this been why?

“They chained him down, Rhysand,” she admitted. “My life, in exchange for Velaris,” And Nesta looked at him seriously, solemnly. “And Cassian would have given it to him. Would have betrayed everything he believed in - for _me_ , and he’d have regretted it every day of his life,” she said, sucking in a soft breath. “And I’d have burned down Velaris myself before I’d have let him live with that,”

Nesta dropped her walls again. And in Rhysand’s mind he saw a weeping shade sitting alone in the cold and the dark. Too proud, too scared to ask for help. He heard the sounds of battle in her hearth. And the indifference; the disingenuous concern from everyone around her. Because no one really cared, not about _her_ , only that she no longer be a problem. He saw Calcarum in flames. Saw Cassian near death. Broken and crushed. Watched them fall. Watched them fly.

Watched Nesta drain the city of what life it had, lava cooling to rock, wards evaporating, and felt her push it into Cassian. A command to keep him alive at all cost.

“I’m sorry,” was all he found himself able to say while the memories came back to Nesta.

And without thinking, Nesta somehow summoned the strength to rise and grabbed him by the shirt.

“ _I don’t want your apologies! WHERE_ _IS_ CASSIAN?” She screamed, and the earth rocked.


	23. Chapter 23

The last thing Cassian remembered was seeing Nesta standing there as the rock fell around her, eyes closed as if waiting for death. In Velaris, she’d pushed the limits of her new body. Drank, starved. Killing herself an inch at a time. And he saw her there. Waiting for the end. After that, Cassian couldn’t recall much of anything. A fleeting sensation of pain and heat. And Nesta’s face hovering near his, lighting his vision against the dark.

When Cassian woke, it was a gutteral wail that tore out of him; a white hot pulsating pain in his chest that reminded him of the time he’d been stabbed with a poker, but there was no wound when he checked. His skin unmarked. Sweat stained but whole. Just a phantom pain and burning heat; something inside him was on fire.

“Don’t move,” a familiar voice asked as Masha’s angular wings came into view above him and something cold and wet washed over his brow.

“Where’s Nesta?”

“Shouting at the High Lord a few tents over,” Masha said grinning down at him. She looked otherwise uninjured. Her wings straight once more; held high on her back.

Cassian felt an invisible weight lifting from his shoulders as he push himself up and swung his feet to the floor; fighting nausea every heartbeat of the way. They’d _survived_. Somehow, in all of this they were still alive. It was miraculous.

“Stop _moving_ ,” Masha growled and she pinched him on the wing; pushing him back down as he tried to stand.

“I don’t take the orders, I _give_ -” Cassian started to say, his expression flat, but she cut him off. “-AHHHHHHH,” he shrieked as her grip tightened and her nails cut into the tender skin at his wings base. He flinched away, snarling.

“The High Lord said I can _break_ them and fix them if you give me grief,” she said and her smile was wicked. Cassian wondered if she’d had the opportunity to do so already with anyone else. She had the look of someone with a new, sudden taste for sadism.

“I’m not a child,” Cassian glared.

“Yes, Illyrian children are normally better at doing what they’re told,” she put her hand against his head. “I think your fever’s broken,”

Cassian batted her hand away.

“Lord Michel?”

“Fled; the Shadowsinger is hunting him,”

The knife in Cassian’s chest felt like it was twisting. It was agony.

“ _Azriel_ \- his name is Azriel,” he breathed through clenched teet.

“Yes, _Lord General_!” She mocked him. “He’s a Shadowsinger until I know him. And your ‘Rhysand’ is _High Lord, forever_ ,” she said plainly.

“Who else came with him?” Cassian asked as Masha rung out a cloth.

“Small scary one with silver eyes who threatened to cut out my tongue for insolence,”

“That would be _Amren_ ,”

“ _And_ , she said there’s one more due to arrive shortly to take you back to healers in Velaris. I said it would be a bad idea to separate you from Nesta, but…I don’t know how much you’ve told them, so I didn’t exactly mention why,”

“I can’t work out if you’d be Azriel’s best friend or worst enemy,” he mumbled.

Cassian swallowed, things hadn’t ended on good terms with Nesta regarding Mor, and all events considering, Mor arriving here to take him away was not clever. He needed to speak to Rhys, immediately.

Before Cassian could really consider all his options for getting passed Masha, wing intact, the ground began to shake and like a hammerfall he heard his name bellowed. Masha stumbled backwards, and before she could recover her step, Cassian was already on his feet and through the tent flap, curses chasing him out into the afternoon light.

The sun was glaring and Cassian groaned as it assaulted him. Around them were a dozen tents and both Illyrians and Fae were rushing about, startled by the tremors. They weren’t far from the foot of Calcarum, though Cassian couldn’t remember how they’d managed to make it to the ground. His wings. There’d been something wrong with them. There’d been fire and smoke, but from where he now stood, the mountain of fire was silent.

It was easy to spot the High Lord’s tent. As much as Rhys would try to avoid the grandeur, it stood out from the rest with its new tarp and trimmings; colours still vibrant and unbleached by the sun.

When he burst in, Rhys was lowering an unconscious Nesta back onto the cot in the corner. Cassian moved quickly and fell to her side. “She’s sleeping,” The High Lord added quickly. “The power is going to take a while to burn away,” he narrowed his eyes, examining Cassian closely. “How do you feel?”

“Like I swallowed hot coal and fell down a cliff,”

“Surprisingly good assessment,” Rhys remarked.

“Well, you can send Azriel next time,” Cassian muttered, glancing down at Nesta. Her brow crinkled sternly; even asleep she looked a moments breath away from eviscerating someone. The pain in his chest eased as he watched her. It wasn’t an easy job he’d been given, but at that moment he couldn’t be certain how much more of this was left in him.

“Maybe, I will. It’s true, Azriel likely wouldn’t have destroyed Calcarum. He _also_ wouldn’t have allowed the rebellion leader to get away,” Rhysand said flatly.

And Cassian straightened. It wasn’t often that his brother spoke to him like that.

“You really want to give me shit over this?” he rumbled, as Nesta shifted, fighting sleep. It was not a natural slumber; Cassian could tell. The High Lord had rendered her unconscious. He bit his tongue to keep the words he wanted to say from leaving his mouth. Knowing that Rhys had once more stamped his will over Nesta’s made Cassian a little sick. The sheer _entitlement_ of a High Lord.

“I do, yes. You know what the ramifications for this are going to be. She _obliterated_ Calcarum, Cassian, But not before stuffing an obscene amount of stolen power down an untethered _mating_ bond to keep you alive…. _or_ bring you back from the dead-” Rhysand clenched his jaw, “-it’s difficult to know for sure,”

Cassian’s chest burned and he clenched his teeth together to avoid severing his own tongue, the heat inside him didn’t compare to the fire in Rhysand’s glare.

“I asked you in Velaris, Cassian, if there was a _chance_ of a bond and you told me there was nothing,”

“It wasn’t any of your business, Rhys, besides, she didn’t want _anything_ to do with me,”

“Neither did Feyre. And my _business,_ is keeping my Court in one piece. If Illyria rebels, the Court of Nightmares follows when there’s nothing to keep Keir in line,” Rhysand sat down in one of his chairs and for a single moment, Cassian hated him. Hated how despite their closeness, despite calling him a brother, he still wielded power over him. “You should have told me, I trust you to tell me these things. You could have been _killed_ ,”

“It wasn’t the first and it won’t be the last time I’m in that position, Rhys,” Cassian crossed his arms. Because as much as they both would have like to believe otherwise, it was an unfortunate fact. Cassian was his military commander, but Rhysand was the High Lord of the Night Court and as such, Cassian was sworn to serve him. And war was dangerous.

“And what about Nesta’s life?” Rhys said.

“You say that like you wouldn’t have sent her regardless. You wanted her out of the city. I wasn’t about let her traipse out here with anyone else,”

“I _wouldn’t_ have -”

“Yes, you would!” Cassian’s eyes narrowed. “Because she was an _advantage_ ,” The Lords had sensed it in her. Sensed the wild, unfettered magic she’d possessed. The _rage_. Sending the unpredictable sister of the High Lady and the military commander for all the armies of the Night Court had been a move _meant_ to intimidate.

“Some advantage - ” he scoffed, “-they’re likely going to demand I execute her. They might demand I execute _you_ ,”

“And _would_ you?”

“I’d kill the first one to ask,” he said all too calmly. “But, you _should_ go back to the city. Gives me time to work out a third alternative,”

Cassian pressed a hand into his chest and exhaled.

“I’m not running, Rhys. If they demand my head, they can fight her for it,” he sat down and jabbed a finger in the High Lord’s direction. “And you can send word to Mor not to bother turning up here,” The ground rumbled, again as if in response to the mention of the Morrigan’s name. A disquiet deep in the earth. “If you think Calcarum is a disaster area, I can guarantee Nesta will level what’s left of that mountain if she wakes up and Mor is flitting about camp as if nothing happened,”

“And what happened?”

“Take a _guess_ ,” Cassian snapped. Mor was a complicated individual, with an ability to make other things complicated too. He looked to Nesta again. “You shouldn’t have put her to sleep,”

“I know, and I don’t like it any more than she will when she wakes up and works out you’re in Velaris. There’s no doubt I’m going to pay dearly for it. But she needs the rest,”

“Rhys, I’m staying here with her,”

“Are you giving _me_ orders?”

“Stating fact,” Cassian drawled. “She called the Illyrian people 'slaves’. I _told_ her she was wrong but I’m not so sure anymore,” he said, and Rhysand paled, because Cassian would always know where to look to find all the sore spots. All those chinks in Rhysand’s armour. He didn’t need to be a mind reader.

“They’d never _choose_ to fight for me, Cassian. I’m a half-breed, remember?” He argued.

Cassian felt a smile crack the darkness of his mood.

“Nesta joked that they’d fight for Elain if they were being paid. And I think she might be right. Things are slow to change were Fae are concerned, but they _do_ change,”

“Nesta, joking?” Rhys said, shaking his head as if the very concept seemed impossible.

“Yes, she _does_ have a sense of humour. And a mean hand for cards,”

“I’ll take your word for it,” The High Lord groaned, running a hand through his hair. “ _Fine_ , you can stay with her. When I know she’s not going to crack open the earth and swallow Velaris into it, we need to have a sit down and talk a few things out,” he spared a glance Nesta’s way. “Feyre misses her. She could do with both her sisters back home,”

But Cassian held off correcting him on whether or not Velaris was _her_ home. He’d have staked his life on it not being the case.

Cassian sighed as the tension that had built between them fizzled out. He was weary beyond words.

“So all the power in Calcarum, huh?”

“For the minute,” a slow smile crept across the High Lord’s face. “So, how does it feel to finally be at _Azriel’s_ level?”

Rhys leapt from the chair with a chuckle as Cassian lazily swung for him. In her sleep, Nesta groaned and the earth rocked again. Rhys holding up his hands in mock surrender.


	24. Chapter 24

There were worse ways to wake, Nesta realised as she opened her eyes and was greeted by the sight of Cassian’s bare chest, the swirl of familiar tattoos twisting over his collarbone; marks already committed to memory, easing the fury she felt at being put to bed like a child by a patronizing High Lord who still seemed to consider her a member of the Court she’d been exiled from.

She watched him in silence for a time. Breathing him in. Marvelling at how his hair fell across his face in sleep. How vulnerable he looked. The Fae she’d seen and met had an unsettling, otherworldly quality to their beauty. A danger to them. They were predators, and they walked and talked and moved like it. Though it was hard for Nesta to admit that she was now a predator, too. These pointed teeth and keen eyes were her. Though, maybe she’d always been, and now there was no veil to hide behind. Only the truth: that while things had changed for her, little about her was different. Nesta Archeron still wielded a tongue, and a mind sharper than anyone's blade. In the end, the cauldron hadn’t changed her in any way that made a _real_ difference.

His arms around her tightened and Nesta looked up, her view of the ceiling blocked by the wing draped protectively over them. From what she could remember, they were in a tent somewhere on the plains surrounding Calcarum, in a makeshift cot. Yet, something about the moment felt like home to her. _This_ was her home. _He_ was her home. She reached up and brushed the long hair from his eyes and he sighed dreamily. Of course he was awake.

“I _will_ murder your brother. I don’t care who he’s married to,” Nesta said, her words harsh, though the fact that she was smiling softened the tone to one of mild irritation.

“You and most of Prythian, sweetheart. You’ll be waiting a while for that opportunity,” Cassian snorted, cracking one sleepy eye open.

“I’m not a patient person, Cassian,” Nesta said, chewing her bottom lip. His entire body twitched at the way his name slithered off her tongue and Nesta felt warm desire coiling in the bottom of her stomach. She smiled; a slow, malevolent thing devoid of human mercy and patted him gently on the cheek. “I can already tell teasing you is going to amuse me greatly,”

She made to move but his arms tightened and the hand that materialized on her waist, trailing a calloused fingertip around and across her stomach, stole the smirk from her lips and the air from her lungs. Nesta’s breath hitch. And then his lips were by her ear, warm air caressing her hair and neck.

“I was just thinking _exactly_ the same thing, _Nesta_ ,” At the sounding of her name he pulled her flat against him and she had to clench her eyes shut as her hips rolled back into his without prompt. “And I play to _win_ ,” he added.

The feeling of sharp teeth grazing her earlobe was almost Nesta’s undoing. For an instant, she didn’t care where she was. Didn’t care that likely Lords and warriors were all around them, just feet beyond the tent. Didn’t care that once started it would likely be impossible to pull them apart. She wanted him. She wanted him more than the next gasp of air and it took all the strength and will power that she could summon to tear free, toppling herself out of the cot and to the floor, panting, as Cassian’s cackles followed her down to the ground.

She lay there a moment, trying to recover some degree of decorum and dignity. Her whole body was humming - electric, and screaming for her to crawl back into his arms. But she wouldn’t. Not here. Not now. She clenched her thighs together as Cassian’s self-satisfied smirk burned it’s way into her mind. If he wanted to play, she would break the game.

While they’d slept a wash basin and soap had been left for them, and fresh clothes draped across the two chairs so they could clean themselves up. Nesta was still wearing nothing but Masha’s bindings, stained trousers and the fading remnants of charcoal on her skin, so with a sly, narrow eyed glance Cassian’s way, Nesta’s climbed to her feet, and with her back to him, she tugged on the string between her breasts, letting the leather holding them unwind and fall to the floor.

She heard him shift on the bed. Heard the rattle of his wings as they spasmed in the air while she moved to the basin, sparing only a single heavy lidded look back over her shoulder, one eyebrow rising - the challenge. The rhythm of Cassian’s breathing changed, quickening, when she dipped her hands in the cool water and sighed seductively. And Nesta smiled as she slipped the waist of her trousers down. Guiding the fabric slowly passed her hips before letting them pool at her feet and stepping free. Standing there, naked, her bare back facing him she felt a new kind of power thrumming in her veins. A knowing that all the magic in Prythian, all the oaths he’d taken, all the fire in Calcarum and Cassian still wouldn’t be able to tear his eyes away from her backside. She could feel his gaze roving her body as she lathered up the cloth and lazily washed her face and arms; washing her neck and letting rivets of cold water run down between her shoulders. She let him hear her breath catch as she washed her chest and brought the cloth lower, before rinsing it again and holding it up between her fingers.

“Do you plan to stare or do intend to help?” she said icily.

He didn’t move as fast as she was expecting, but she sensed the heat of him at her back as he took the wet rag and began tracing gentle circles down her spine. Spreading out to the blades of her shoulders and back again. Washing the worst of the ash from her skin. Nesta felt the heat of his other palm hovering just over the cheek of her ass. His breathing was intense and ragged behind her.

Fingertips, light as feathers touched her cheek and as soon as they made contact, she stepped away, whiping the navy blue wollen dress from the chair and slipping it over her head. Cassian left standing where he’d been, still holding the washcloth. Eyes wide. His hand looked to be trembling.

“So, what does _victory_ feel like?”

“Uncomfortable,” he rasped. Knowing that in this game at least, he hadn’t just lost, but been decimated.

Nesta slipped on some shoes and strolled passed him, reaching out and running a finger along his jaw.

“You might play to win, but I _don’t play,_ ” she said, her hand lingering against the heat of his face.

“ _Clearly_ ,” Cassian said, as she meandered outside and he scrambled to change. Outside Nesta could hear dozens of voices that could only mean the camps had convened again. Or what was left of them anyway.

The sun was rising while Nesta calculated that she’d slept for almost an entire day and night. The weakness and the sickness was gone. And her limbs didn’t ache as they once did. As she passed through the camp, Illyrians and High Fae alike turned to stare at her. Some of those faces watched her with suspicion and barely concealed contempt, but others inclined their heads at her passing. Unsure where she should be going she followed the sounds of arguing with Cassian in tow. They were all gathered in the open air beneath an enormous gazebo and immediately, Nesta recocognized the four Lords they’d saved from Calcarum mixed in with around twenty or so other males; all bickering and shoving amongst themselves. There were so many she didn’t recognize. Presumably representing the camps who’s Lords were not lucky enough to survive the destruction of the city.

“Lord Archeron,”

Someone announced her arrival and Nesta faltered only a half a step at the title before steadying her stride. Enough heads lowered in polite deference for her to see Rhysand’s head snap up from a table of maps and a look of genuine perplexed horror, saunter slowly across his face as his eyebrows rose at the sight. The males parted for Nesta like the ocean to Cretea and kept her expression blank as she stalked through them. The ones that didn’t know her had enough sense to follow their peers lead. When she reached the table, the High Lord had straightened. It was rare she saw his wings. He made sure to keep them hidden while he was in the city. As though they were a symbol of shame for him, and he didn’t like his subjects to be reminded of his mixed heritage. Yes, for all his talk of things changing in Illyrian society, Nesta could see that it would need to change elsewhere, too.

She spared a look down at the maps gathered, briefly noting that they detailed the most Northern mountains.

“ _Lord Archeron_ ,” he mocked in that nonchalant, condescending tone that made her want to hit him.

“If you do that ever again, you had better ensure I never wake up, because as much as it would hurt him, I _do_ believe Cassian would forgive me in time if I sat your severed head in the ground next to Hybern’s King,” she whispered, just loud enough to be audible to the rest.

Rhysand’s eyes flickered to a shocked stiff Cassian, who answered the High Lord only with a silent, ambivalent smile. When his gaze came back to Nesta, Rhysand muttered a flat, “noted,” in response.

“Have you found him yet then?” she asked with distaste. As though the subject left a foulness in her mouth. Nesta’s voice was a blade that cut through the chattering of the others.

“Not yet,” Rhysand replied, his fists tightening on the edge of the table. Likely having fielded the same question a hundred time since dawn broke the horizon.

“Are you not the High Lord?” Nesta asked sarcastically and his eyes darkened, every inch of him a warning now for her to stop. But Nesta just smiled venomously. “It is your job to protect _all_ the people’s of your Court,”

“Protect them from you?” a voice from the crowd snarled and Nesta spun. Her tongue flashing with the speed of a viper even as Cassian turned to them, snarling.

“ _I_ did not slink through the city in the dark, cutting the throats of the other Lords as they slept. _I_ did not _flee_ to save my own skin,” Nesta’s eyes searched out the male who’d spoken, marking him by the stares of the others. “Would you have joined him, then?” And she pointed an accusatory finger at hom, taking satisfaction as he paled. As his ire withered away.

When she looked back at Rhysand, the High Lord of the Night Court was calm. The anger that had been in his face moments before was gone. Replaced with an understanding. She had merely said what they were all thinking.

“I’ve sent Azriel to find him. You _cannot_ escape your own shadow,” he acquiesced. Realizing that it wasn’t her he was speaking to. It was the others. And they were uncertain. The order of their world had shifted and they needed to know someone actually gave a damn.

“There is nothing living - not a mortal, not a Fae, or beast or god that Azriel won’t find,” Cassian added, calming them.

Silver eyes pierced a blanket of black mist, as Amren appeared at the table. Winnowing to them from wherever she’d been. Her expression unreadable. Which to Nesta’s recollection was never good. Amren never bothered to conceal anything but the darkest thoughts from her expressions. And then, sometimes she enjoyed frightening people. Enjoyed the flash of fear in their eyes.

“We can convene again at noon,” Rhysand said dismissing the Illyrians who took their time leaving the area. He released a heavy breath, straightening the papers on his desk.

“I’m not in a good mood, Amren,”

“Your moods are not my concern, Rhysand,” she snapped back at him.

“Then _what_?”

“Keir has rallied the Court of Nightmares,” Amren said, her expression faltering long enough for Nesta to see the rage boiling just behind her burning silver eyes. “Your lands are now in open rebellion,”


	25. Chapter 25

The world that she’d thought she’d known had changed; inverting so fast she’d almost been sick with stupor. Nesta had believed she’d understood how things worked in the Fae lands, but in mere hours it had ceased to be any place she recognized. It was suddenly strange and terrifying again. The makeshift camp at Calcarum had dissolved in minutes once word had spread - and it _did_ spread. The new and old Lords left in a panic. Dissent - uprising. All that had occurred here was rendered unimportant in moments - and with a few simple words. Cassian practically picked Nesta up off the ground as Rhysand and Amren had winnowed them away; they were fleeing back to Velaris.

But the fighting had already started. Even as Azriel returned and put swords in their hands, it was still too late to save anyone else.

The air was poisonous with smoke and blood. It didn’t feel real. Her nightmares had finally been made manifest - horrors made flesh as they hit skirmish after skirmish at every turn. The urge to sleep no longer came - ironic, considering it no longer frightened her. Nothing she could dream could have been this terrible. The wind carried the gurgling screams of the dead and dying - the smells of corpses. Flying made them targets and Rhysand and Amren could winnow their group only so far at a time, so for long agonizing parts they were on foot.

Cassian growled, breaking the shaft of a spear still posted in the dirt from the last volley Azriel had deflected, before him and his shadows had slunk off to dispatch their new attackers.

There seemed to be fighting at every turn as they travelled. It had sprung up from nothing. No singular camps or tribes. Females and children - males unable to fight, fleeing in all directions. Shot from the sky like birds if they ran. Only those who would denounce Rhysand and fight for Keir were allowed live if caught. Those who’d chosen not to fight at all were forcibly clipped. A tired Masha had abandoned them miles ago to help the wounded. Unable to bring herself to leave them where they lay. Nesta didn’t know if there were medals or commendations for valor but in her mind, there was nothing braver.

But the nature of their enemy changed beyond the hills. It was no longer enough to watch the skies, as other fae in armour attacked on the ground.

“Who the fuck are these soldiers?” Cassian bit out but a sharp look and a raised hand from Rhysand silenced him, as more arrows appeared whistling overheard, falling like hail. Nesta watched as Amren merely waved her hand through the air and they evaporated like mist. An illusion; to make them break their cover and move out into the open.

She vanished like smoke and Nesta heard the distant screams. When Amren winnowed back in she brought a corpse with her - their head twisted so far they looked the other way. Staring out into nothing with such a look of terror on their faces. For her diminutive size, she dragged a male a hundred pounds heavier with ease; dumping him at their feet.

“Mercenaries from Hybern must have come to bolster their forces,” she sneered at them, panting. The armour was distinctive. Without their king, Hybern had seen a number of such groups rise from the ashes.

“Paid with?” Cassian asked, rubbing his neck.

“Money from the High Lord’s treasury, I’d expect. He won’t have the strength yet to break through the city wards,” she pierced Rhysand with a dark look. _He’s not the High Lord yet._ “But while the city is safe, you - _you_ are not in it,”

“You think he’d try and take me on directly?” The High Lord whispered - uncertain and unsure. Keir had never been satisfied with his position at Court. But to face him in a straight fight? He was too much a coward. It wouldn’t be a battle he’d win and he had to know that.

“ _I_ certainly wouldn’t,” Amren offered. Her cunning mind spinning the wheels of an eternity in her head. “My guess is that Keir won’t come at you direct, either,”

“Rebellion is pretty direct,” Cassian said, his arms crossed.

Fires burned in the distance, lighting the sky orange. They’d not made it far from Calcarum before the aftermath of it all had been made clear. Camps raised to the ground. Bodies littering the hills; of High Fae and Illyrian. Of beast and hag. The streams running red with blood.

While Rhysand had been looking toward Illyria, Keir had been moving on the southern front. They’d been working together, to draw him from Velaris. And the question had been asked: what was their next move?

And Nesta realised with a cold clarity that there was really only one move Keir could still make that wouldn’t see Rhysand scatter his bones across Prythian. Only one that would give him the leverage he needed. One shot at the throne.

He would go after Feyre.

For Rhysand’s uncle to take the Night Court he would need only kill him and Feyre. With no heirs, the mantle, and all the power with it would lawfully pass to him and there would be nothing they could do to prevent it.

It astounded Nesta how easily interaction with Rhysand became after realizing Keir was going after her sister. Feyre had been healing at their country home outside of Velaris and while Keir knew he would need to eliminate her regardless, doing so first would give him an advantage. Rhysand would very likely, willingly walk into any trap to kill him if something happened to her. She was the target and the bait for whatever came next.

“If he does anything to my sister, I won’t leave him a throne to take. I won’t leave him a Court to inherit,” Nesta hissed, grabbing Rhysand by the arm. He didn’t look angry.

“There’s only one individual in my Court that would have the power to challenge a High Lord,” he said, and Nesta swallowed, knowing that he meant her. The thought was terrifying. _What did I take?_ The old question surfaced again.

“If he harms my sister,” Nesta gave Rhysand a pointed look, “I will bury him _under_ that Mountain,”

And Rhysand had smiled. Perhaps the first time Nesta and he had ever spoken where it was genuine. He didn’t look at her with pity. Or politeness. A serpent that had previously coiled around Nesta’s heart, unwound itself.

“If anything happens to Feyre, you can bury us _both_ ,”

Nesta hadn’t really, truly been able to comprehend the reality of what the mating bonds did to Fae once they’d become firm. But she knew now. This immortal being of untold power would willingly die rather than face eternity without his mate. Fear hit her hard in the chest, her heart squeezing with the weight of it.

That the bond was a chain - choking them; not a lifeline. And if anything happened to her, Nesta didn’t want that fate for Cassian. Even if he continued on, he would be an empty shell, it would _destroy_ him and she’d destroyed so much already.

Even without his siphons, Cassian was far from incapacitated and Nesta watched him knock spears and arrows from the air with just a sword when Azriel wasn’t there to shield them. They were now days from Rhysand’s home. Days from Feyre. That the enemy attacks became more frequent the closer they’d come to the manor made them all anxious.

Their home was warded and Nesta knew that her sister was far from a wilting flower. She would fight. At their lowest, Archeron’s were only ever at their most dangerous.


	26. Chapter 26

She wasn’t there.

The building looked intact. The doors locked shut; the window shutters closed. The gates to the grounds were barricaded still. Their wards impenetrable and still very much up and holding.

But Feyre wasn’t here. No one was, actually. And while Rhysand knew intrinsically that she was still alive. Still unhurt. He also knew now that she gone from this place.

His promise to give her time and space to recover had backfired as Nesta discovered he’d not been able to reach her since.

“Do you think she left to find somewhere safer? Back to the city, perhaps?” Cassian wondered aloud.

But it wasn’t logical. Nesta could feel the protections of this place. Feel their strength. She doubted an entire army of Keir clones could so much as crack the magic keeping them at bay.

“These wards are the same as the cities. If she feared he’d break through these, then she wouldn’t have felt any safer in Velaris,”

“Nesta is correct,” Amren announced and Nesta felt herself straighten with the acknowledgement. Such things were rare in dealings with the High Lord’s inner circle. “Our only two options are to assume she left of her own power or was lured out beyond the walls,”

“Feyre wouldn’t have run. She’d have stayed to fight for her home. She helped build this place,” Rhysand said and there was an almost pride in his voice. His wife was every bit the warrior. Even now.

“Then she was _lured_ out,”

The words Amren spoke seemed to strike Rhysand like a hammer. He stood there dazed for a moment - his breathing coming in short and shorter gasps. Nesta watched Cassian put a hand on his shoulder to steady him.

“Feyre is _fine_. You’d know if she wasn’t!” he said, reasoning with him.

If she was lured, she was lured by a person. By someone she knew. Defending a friend was the only thing that could have dragged her out of the house.

“Where is Elain?”

“Returned to Velaris. My wraiths are guarding her,” Azriel said a little too swiftly for Nesta’s liking and he withdrew a little too fast under her suspicious glare.

“Mor? Lucien?” - Amren shot a quick glance at Rhysand. - “Tamlin?”

“Lucien is in the Mortal Kingdoms and my spies advise me that Tamlin hasn’t left his Court home in months for anything but the occasional hunt,”

“Your spies haven’t been so reliable as of late,” Nesta turned up her nose at him. She knew it was likely his information that had sent them into Illyria. Azriel bared a set of sharp teeth in an uncharacteristic show of temper and Nesta gave him her most contemptuous smile.

“ _Sweetheart_ ,” Cassian called to her. “This helps nothing,”

“And _Morrigan_?” Nesta asked taking in a breath. Cassian visibly flinched at her tone. The way she’d traded one sore spot for another. The use of her full name instead of simply _Mor_. She’d been on her way to the camp at Calcarum when Nesta had told Rhysand to send her back. That would have put her directly in the middle of all of this.

Nesta watched the High Lord concentrate for a moment before wincing and scrunching his eyes shut.

“I can’t reach her,”

“If we find one, we might find the other,” Cassian offered. “Have we any means to track either of them?”

And Nesta’s stomach dropped out of her as Amren and Rhysand both turned in her direction.

“You’re the only one with a talent for throwing bones,” Amren said plainly, but Nesta shook her head.

“I did it once. And it was the cauldron we were looking for. What makes you think I’d be able to find one person?”

“Because she is your _sister_ and those kinds of bonds are as old as magic itself. And _just_ as strong,”

But Nesta hesitated. Feyre and her hadn’t parted on good terms, and they’d never been close. She didn’t believe it would work.

“We should search the house first,” she insisted instead. “We might find a clue there,”

They walked through the wards unimpeded. A tingle racing along Nesta’s skin the only indication of its presence. The grounds were pristine. There were no bodies or spent arrows. No signs of fighting. The hallway inside the front door still had coats and cloaks on the hooks. There was a cold teapot on the table; an empty child’s high chair seated at the far end. The interior walls of house had been painted in soft blues and from the door inward, pink blossoms spread out against it. A forest of painted spring flowers welcoming guests. They separated, dividing up among the rooms and Nesta felt a little voyeuristic. Every corner, every side table was filled with personal things belonging to Feyre. Gloves on the kitchen counter. A comb on the bedroom dresser. It didn’t feel right to be here, poking through their belongings.

Nesta pushed open a door upstairs and froze, unable to breathe. Toys littered the floor and against a lush carpet a solitaire crib rested. The walls had been decorated with rainbows and streams. Beams of yellow sunshine, permanent and bright, so that even in the coldest, darkest winter their child would know nothing but sun.

Grief so profound and decimating she felt herself clutch at her chest, tore at Nesta, as tears slipped down her cheeks. Heartbreak for all that her sister had suffered and continued to suffer. All the pain she’d caused; the cycle they’d been trapped in. Where they continually hurt each other. She almost couldn’t bear it.

The house ultimately told them nothing. There were no clues here. None that they could decipher, anyway.

When Nesta had wiped herself free of tears she returned to the dining room where they’d already set out a map. The bag of bones waited, tossed back and forth from one hand to the next in Amren’s grasp. Pensive and turbulent, the mood. But flashes of the child’s room lingered in Nesta’s mind. And even thinking about Feyre, fresh tears threatened to spring.

Amren threw her the bag and Nesta snatched it out of the air with ease. Her hands as quick as a snake.

“Will they know?” Nesta asked softly.

The Cauldron had known. Had felt her looking for it. The Hybern King had as well. This wasn’t a covert magic.

“They might. There are Fae in the Court of Nightmares able to detect such spells, block them as well,” Rhysand sucked in a breath. “But the wards still protect this place and you are no simple Fae,”

Nesta did her best not to scowl. The wards should have protected Feyre, but here they were. Cassian rested a hand between her shoulder blades and smiled.

“Anyone attacking us here and now is an idiot. They’d be torn apart,”

“I will continue searching the grounds,” Azriel’s voice was his usual deceptively dulcet tone but his eyes betrayed a pain and an anger. A worry that Nesta hadn’t seen before the mention of Mor. Nesta watched him disappear into the shadows like a specter. Rhysand’s family was populated with killers and monsters. The bag of bones rattled in her fist. But no monster more fearsome than her.

Nesta emptied the bones into her palm and rolled them absently between her fingers. She closed her eyes and tried to picture Feyre’s face. See the set of her brow when she was angry, the crease of her lips when she smiled. The last time she’d done this the target has been something very different. More ancient and powerful than all the Lords of Prythian combined. Nesta hadn’t said at the time, but she’d heard it calling to her. Speaking to her in a language she didn’t know. Or perhaps she had known but had chosen to pretend otherwise. If she listened she could hear it again. They were never parted. It’s magic was a part of her.

“ _Unmaker!! Thief! Daughter_!” The voice called to her.

A hand on her shoulder dragged her back and Nesta blinked gasping for air. Her lungs burned as though she’d been drowning. She’d tipped forward against the table, still clutching the bones tightly. She hadn’t even thrown them yet.

“You need to concentrate,” Amren chastised her.

“I still hear it,” Nesta admitted, watching how Rhysand’s eyes widened.

“Then ignore it. Focus on Feyre. Try to imagine where she might be. Let the bones guide you,”

Nesta began again. Visualizing Feyre once more. She tried to picture her in a fortress. Or a cell. Her hands bound. But there was simply darkness. All the images of stone and wood faded entirely to black and Nesta grit her teeth in frustration and tossed the bones to the table. There was a sudden crack that sounded. Like wood splintering.

“Mor?”

Rhysand’s call dragged her from the blackness still clouding her minds, and Nesta turned, opening her eyes to see the blond haired meddler standing in front of her. Her normally bright eyes rung with dark circles and her skin so icy pale that she looked like death. Like a corpse dragged from the Sidre.

Nesta stared but Mor’s gaze was far off. She wasn’t focusing on any of them.

“Mor??” Cassian touched his friends shoulder and it was like a switch being flipped. Mor pulled away from his hand, mouth open in a silent snarl.

And then her eyes locked on Nesta. Taking her in; a purpose to her limbs again, and slowly, with a trembling hand she reached out to her. Nesta jerked backwards hitting the table. Something about Mor made her afraid. A primal sort of fear she hadn’t felt in so very long. Like witnessing the flash of a set of eyes in the night. Watching from the treeline. Nails down her spine. Nesta looked to Cassian, who felt her fear and who’s eyes had widened.

Someone knocked over a chair and shouted her name as Mor grabbed for her, cold, clammy fingers clamping round Nesta’s arms.

And then the air warped and shivered as Mor winnowed, Nesta in tow.

Air rushed up at her and she was suddenly falling. Below her the ground was a distant carpet of green and grey as the hands holding her let go and she watched as Mor vanished.

And Nesta fell; the ground running up to meet her.


	27. Chapter 27

Nesta knew the feeling of falling very well. That enitial thrill of being weightless. The first rush of blood to her head that made her body tingle. The wind watering her eyes and whipping at her hair and clothes. The pull of the earth was as constant as the stars. As assured as the rising of the setting of the sun and the rising of the moon. There were some things not even magic could change. Inviolable laws of the world.

But Nesta flown before. Had spread invisible wings and carried Cassian to the bottom of Calcarum. So she focused on them again. On wings at her back. Wings like Masha’s. Long and angled. Deadly. She envisioned them catching the updraft and her gliding to safety. But the power she’d had then had long since began to fade; what was left after saving Cassian had been leeched back into the earth. Trickling away like water. _Unmaker_. The voice of the Cauldron had called her and for a moment Nesta knew her power. Knew the magic she’d ripped from it. A power that would be no use in this. Because she was still falling and she knew no matter how much she wished for it this time. There would be no summoning wings to bring her to safety.

In the distance a dark speck appeared and as she grew closer, Nesta recognized her sisters home from above. Felt herself pass through the wards above it; the barrier protecting it even from attack overhead. She was close and yet so far from salvation. Obviously, whoever had orchestrated this little stunt had planned for them to stumble on her body. To taunt them with her death and the knowing that they could have prevented it. They wanted to _use_ her.

“ _RHYSAND_??” Nesta screamed. A bellow filled with rage that reverberated in her mind. A shout she pushed out, knowing that he would be searching for her.

There was an acknowledgement…and a flurry of panic. And Nesta decided that she would learn to winnow as soon as she could. That no one would be using her weaknesses against her again. They’d known she couldn’t. Knew who to target. Mor’s sickly face came into view. The emptiness in her. The fear, even just the sight of her evoked, but Nesta wasn’t given the opportunity to wonder what power could have taken her over as something dark flashed across her vision. It took her a moment to recognize the wings. The glare of the blue siphons he wore just as Cassian had done. It was Azriel. Already searching the grounds; sent by Rhysand to fetch her. The arm that wrapped around her waist was bruising but the fall to earth was slowing, so Nesta for once decided to hold her tongue. When they landed he set her down and she put her hands on her knees and heaved several heavy breathes trying to get her heart under control as it desperately tried to beat it’s way out of her chest. She would never complain about Masha’s flying again.

When Nesta looked up at him, his eyes were glassy and wet. He didn’t say anything, as he pushed his way passed her and disappeared inside.

She avoided it as much as she could but Nesta fired a brief query along the bond to Cassian. No longer a simple thread but a steel cable binding them together. All that came back was an intense sadness.

But she was okay? She wasn’t dead. Despite best efforts, the Fae would need to learn to strike directly for the heart if they wished Nesta Archeron gone from the world. A single shot, and with much truer aim.

Amren was seated at the table. She’d made herself tea. Though Nesta noticed the cup untouched.

“What’s going on?” she asked her.

“I would seem, an inevitable regime change,” Amren hushed, lifting her silver eyes from the table.

Nesta turned, looking for Cassian but he’d vanished. Like Azriel, he’d disappeared off into the house somewhere. She quickly clambered up the stairs but halted in her tracks, passing the open door to their child’s room. Rhysand was seated with his legs crossed on the rug. Clutching a stuffed bear between his fingers.

“What _is_ this?”

“Amarantha had one particular pet,” Rhysand started talking as though he hadn’t heard her question. “Did Feyre ever tell you about the Middengard Wyrm she killed?”

“I’ve heard of it,” Nesta replied.

There was something truly wrong. This was not the individual she knew. The power that put the Cauldron back together.

“Do you know, I would joke that it was the only thing Amarantha _actually_ loved beyond the sound of her own irritating voice. A blind, ravenous parasite on the earth,” he sneered.

“Does this have something to do with why your cousin winnowed me a mile over the house and dropped me to die in Feyre’s flowerbed?”

“The Middengard Wyrm had _larvae_ ,”

It was the only one of its kind the Fae had ever recorded in Prythian. And while it didn’t have the means to reproduce, once every twenty or so years it would lay eggs and from them hatched hundreds of slithering larvae. Insideous little monsters that Amarantha would send those who’d fallen from favour to gather up. Disgusting as they were, she kept them in jars and one of her very many cruelties involved dropping them into the ears of those who’d displeased her. For a mortal it would have been an instant death, but for the Fae it was a much, much slower process. During which, as it ate away at their brains, they became malleable tools who would do whatever you told them to. Kill for you. Betray their family and friends for you. Betray even their mates. Before they died horribly. It was likely the Wyrm had used its larvae to force creatures into it’s tunnels so it could feed. Once the Fae was dead it would crawl from the husk and wither into nothing.

But Keir was using them now, on his own daughter. Mor was dying.

And Nesta realised what Rhysand had been trying to say.

Maybe perhaps Feyre as well. Alive. Unresponsive.

Keir didn’t intended to fight Rhysand for the throne. Not when he could have Feyre do it.

“Can they be removed?”

“Those who’ve tried have died regardless. If you were accidentally exposed in Amarantha’s court she would have you simply thrown into the pit,” he said distantly. “You were already dead to her,”

“And because that bitch couldn’t have bothered to work out a way to remove them, we should simply give up, is that it? Assume it’s impossible?”

“I’ve seen them try to remove them. You would know them by the screams alone,” he paled, remembering. “They are creatures of magic. They will protect themselves,”

Nesta stepped before Rhysand and crossed her arms. Glaring down at him. Unimpressed. His pitiable condition did not penetrate her look of utter contempt. Rhysand didn’t have the luxury of feeling sorry for himself. Outside the manor the wards groaned. Sensing Nesta and the threat she brought with her; reacting to her magic even though she’d done nothing with it. It pushed down on her as she let her walls fall just a little and she grit her teeth. The High Lord scrambled up just as the wards to his home broke and the ground shuddered.

“They cannot protect themselves from _me_ ,”

Nesta was reluctant to show it but the display exhausted her. She walked back downstairs grateful that the folds of her dress hid the shaking of her knees, the uncertainty of her steps. She gripped the banister so tightly her hands turned white. But Rhysand followed her. And there was a renewed strength in him.

Something like hope.

“What did you see when you threw the bones, girl?” Amren asked her as she took a seat in at the table while more tea was poured. Nesta took it in her hands. Holding the warmth. A comfort. Azriel and Cassian stalked back in together. They looked to have had a serious conversation and she could feel Cassian’s anger, just below the surface and threatening to spill.

“Blackness. Nothingness. It was dark,”

“They’re Under the Mountain,” Rhysand said. “It would make sense considering what he has access to now,”

Amarantha’s leftovers. Probably still in the same jars she’d stocked away. If he was there, he might have access to any number of other horrors left over from those days of torment. Striking at Rhysand from Amarantha’s old seat of power was a low blow.

“How long do Fae live once they’re infected?”

“Days,”

“And if they were weak perhaps after miscarrying a child?”

“Less - hours, maybe,” Amren interjected.

“If his plan is to do to Feyre what he’s done to Mor, he wouldn’t do it yet. Not until he’s sure she’ll live long enough to face you,”

Under the Mountain had been long thought abandoned by the Fae. Once the most revered place in Prythian, now it was synonymous with a living hell and too many had far too terrible memories, imprisoned and tortured there by Amarantha, to ever willingly want to go back.

“There _are_ entrances on the mountainside. With wings it would be possible to access the old court underground from there. If we aren’t winnowing, and we’re careful, we could slip in unnoticed,” Azriel indicated on the map.

Nesta wagered that Rhysand would know the layout of Amarantha’s old court far better than Keir. Would know it’s secrets and its hidden passages. They could sneak in.

“It’s warded,” Amren said and Rhysand looked to Nesta.

“I don’t think that will be a problem for us if we’re not winnowing in,” Rhysand raked his fist through his hair. “The doors to traps are always open,”

“On the way in, _yes_. But you’ll find those are the very same doors that have a tendency to close behind you,”

“We can worry about exits once Keir and Michel and all those who decided to join them in harming my family, are dead,” Rhysand looked to Nesta and smirked. “Is your offer to bury him under a mountain still on the table?”

“It wasn’t the mountain I had mind-” Nesta raised an eyebrow. “-but I’m _flexible_ ,”


	28. Chapter 28

If stone walls could speak, they would only scream in the chambers Under the Mountain. And, were Nesta to concentrate hard enough, she knew she would hear the echoes of them pleading for their lives. Begging to see the sun. The cackling laughter of Prythian’s most despised jailor as she ruled from her throne. Down here with her darkness and her worms.

Not even the Fae who’d died in this place had escaped, not even in death. Their torment and suffering was drunk into the holy stones of the mountain. An underground city, tainted and brought to ruin just like Calcarum had been. The era of the High Lords and their war against mortals had left nothing in Prythian sacred.

They entered Amarantha’s old domain from a cavern halfway up the peak. A tiny mouthed thing overgrown with moss and hanging vines; it would have been impossible to spot had you not known it was already there. The passage was so small that Cassian and Azriel’s wings scraped the rock even as they ducked through. Nesta sensing Cassian’s anxiety rising with each foot they descended. Her mate was not a fan of enclosed spaces. She would have thought it an Illyrian attribute but for the calm, assured steps of his brother, Azriel. Rhysand still had a few hundred or so loyal guard from Velaris but at Nesta’s request had sent them north: to protect the Illyrian people still fighting for their lives, with an order to find Masha and aid her. They were alone. A secrecy which stood to be their only benefactor in this. A hoard of troops arriving had the tendency of announcing ones presence.

It was Nesta’s first time witnessing the site of her sisters torment and triumph. The place where Feyre had fought and died and been humiliated and ressurrected. Where she’d harried bargains in the dark for her life. Where she’d been _betrayed_ by the male she thought had loved her - Nesta hadn’t dared say it out loud but when one of your three challenges is a simple reading test and only one individual knows you to be illiterate, that individual is a _fucking traitor_.

But this wasn’t simply a place of torment and humiliation for Feyre, it was the same for Rhysand. The drunken Fae at the taverns in Velaris called him the ‘Whore’ Lord when they thought no one was listening, or that the ones that were, would be too intoxicated to remember. But whores had power. Nesta knew better than most. Power to set a rate. Power to refuse service. They were nothing to be looked down on. They provided service only because someone else demanded it. If there was to be any shame at all, it wouldn’t be theirs.

But Rhysand hadn’t been a whore. He hadn’t been a simple playmate for the High Lady of Prythian. He’d been a slave. A prisoner. She kept him in her bed because she knew he hated her. That was his punishment. An eternity being repulsed by her touch. Repulsed by himself for having to smile and laugh and drape himself on her arm. He was something to be used and raped. _Broken_.

They were all so terribly broken. While Nesta couldn’t excuse their sins. She could understand. She _could_ forgive them. She’d made enough terrible decisions on her own and her years of life were so very few in comparison. In five hundred years, who knew the regrets she might have.

Amarantha’s infernal court to Nesta’s eyes seemed to be a piss poor reflection of the Court of Nightmares. For all it’s terrible, glorious splendor, this - this was _simply_ terrible. And it didn’t strike Nesta as being odd that Fae once free from this place would never wish to return; that it could be abandoned so readily. There were no prayers or holy waters that would cleanse it of its evils. Only perhaps flame. Total and utter decimation.

“So, have you decided to release the Illyrian territories back to their people?” Nesta casually asked as they picked their way through the darkness. Her eyes no longer had trouble seeing without the light.

Azriel stumbled a step hearing the words come out of Nesta’s mouth. Amren to her credit only barely faltered.

“ _Nesta_ ,” Cassian said in warning. “Do you really think this is the time for that,”

“Don’t admonish me like a child, Cassian. If not now, then _never_ ,” Nesta snapped.

“It will certainly be _never_ if we’re all caught and killed,” Cassian whispered.

Rhysand gave them a long, hard look.

“I’m _considering_ it,” he said.

“Consider it carefully. I’m only _just_ beginning not to despise you, and I’d hate to regress,”

“How could _anyone_ possibly hate me?” Rhysand snorted.

“You mean up until they meet you and then have _absolutely_ no choice?”

There was a bolt of strange, unfamiliar laughter that startled her before Nesta realised it was Azriel laughing.

“I believe listening to Nesta shred you to your bones, Rhys, might be my new favoured past time,” Amren drawled and there were a few more chuckles. Nesta saw a smile crack Cassian’s tense face before banter lapsed into heavy silence.

While there was no signs of life per say, there _was_ something down there with them. They could all feel it and whatever it was, they were getting closer. They passed through great chambers witnessed only by the corpses still nailed into the walls; left hanging up to rot. Amarantha’s sport. A reminder of how cruel immortality could make a Fae.

Nesta could physically feel the throne room ahead. Even if she’d been wholly oblivious to the smell of death and malice, the sudden tremor in the High Lord’s hands were impossible to miss. As was the way that Amren, Cassian and Azriel slunk ahead of them both.

And in the darkness a flickering light beckoned ahead, and Nesta knew they were here. Both her sister and Mor.

Her eyes stung a little when they emerged into the throne room and it took Nesta a moment to adjust - and stagger back a step at the sight of the corpse in the throne. The reddish gold hair falling like a veil over her face, disguising the greenish hollow where her eyes once where. The more Nesta stared, the more the colour of her hair changed, darkening to black depending on the angle the light hit her.

Amarantha herself, or at least a haunting image of her, rotting away at the heart of her own destroyed court, presiding over them. Perhaps the vision of her there was a gift from Keir to unnerve the High Lord or it actually _was_ her in the chair; a final jab from one of the many Fae who’d been imprisoned here. Nesta couldn’t be certain. The only thing she knew was that she had no intention of getting close enough to check.

They moved toward the source of the light; a solitaire candle burning away.

“Cous- _Cousin_ ,” a voice stammered from the darkness and there was a flash of light that struck Amren and sent her skidding across the floor. Nesta turned but a head of gold hair was already retreating into the darkness. Rhysand and Azriel racing after her.

Nesta didn’t react as they vanished down a maze of tunnels. Cassian hadn’t run, just cursed his brother’s for their stupidity. Amren had clambered back to her feet and was brushing herself off.

“Tell me, Cassian-” Amren spoke, her eyes fixed on the mouth of the tunnel the High Lord had vanished down, “- if you’re alone and outnumbered on a battlefield you control, what is the first thing you do?”

“You _separate your enemy_ ,” he said gruffly. Sighing. Neither of them were thinking clearly. “I’ll kick Azriel if you take Rhys?” Cassian growled.

Amren didn’t respond to him silver eyes flashing in the candlelight as her focus went back to the dark path. There were shouts and the sounds of struggle and just as Cassian moved to follow after them, the High Lord reappeared carrying an unconscious Feyre in his arms. Azriel was nowhere to be seen.

“Feyre!” Nesta rushed to his side as Rhysand dropped to his knees so Amren could examine her.

“She was laying in Amarantha’s _bed_ ,” he hissed, the disgust in his voice almost palpable.

“Mor?”

“Azriel is chasing her down - she doesn’t look to have much time left,” Rhysand whispered.

He held Feyre close. As though his world were falling apart and she was the only thing that could keep it together. Almost too close to see her clearly. Nesta touched her face. Her skin was ice and her eyes were closed. She wasn’t responsive.

Amren tilted her head to the side and a sliver of blood ran out of her ear and across her cheek. Talons ripped into Nesta’s chest as understanding dawned.

And Feyre opened her eyes so suddenly, and so impossibly wide that Nesta couldn’t see her eyelids. Her pupils as wide as pennies, ringed by white. Looking up at them like a wild beast. Time slowed, a heartbeat, a second, and from the folds of her shirt Feyre withdrew a long thin blade, and drove it into her mate’s chest. Rhysand’s resounding roar cracked the stone of the throne room and rained dust down on their heads.


	29. Chapter 29

Nesta often times made herself - not _forget_ \- but put out of mind how lethal Cassian actually was. How before he’d had siphons to channel his magic, he’d trained in the camps with knives and swords and spears. His life had been brutal. He’d scraped, and fought and killed. And with every victory had _earned_ his title as the Lord of Bloodshed. She didn’t think of him as dangerous. Because he wasn’t a danger to her, it slipped her mind that he was all that and more to everyone else.

It hadn’t surprised Amren however, that before Feyre could plunge the blade all the way through Rhysand’s heart, that Cassian’s hands had shot out quicker than Nesta could comprehend what was even happening, one around her fist, the other around the blade itself. Keeping the point from sinking to lethal depths. A feat, because even while driving a knife into his chest, Rhysand wouldn’t release her; still cradling her close. All the while dust fell in increasingly worrying quantities. He’d asked Nesta to bring down the mountain and then it seemed gone and done it himself.

“ _Let her go_ ,” Cassian bit out. Pulling at his brother’s arms but Rhysand’s grip was like a vice. Even as blood dripped from his lips, he wouldn’t set her down or let her go. There was something wrong. The High Lord’s eyes were scrunched in concentration.

Mor had access to magic while under the power of the larvae. But Mor didn’t have the power to control minds. And Feyre did.

Amren attempted to aid Cassian and separate the blade from Feyre’s fist but some preternatural strength fueled her and her hands had wrapped so tightly around the knife that Nesta would guess the only way to free it would involve breaking every single one of her sisters fingers in the process.

“Nesta!” Amren hissed. Cassian’s hands were covered in blood. Some of it was Rhysand’s, most of it his own, as the knife opened his palm and sunk deeper and deeper. An inch or two more and that was it. The High Lord would be dead.

If he would simply let her go, his life would be saved. This was ridiculous. The most powerful daemati in Prythian was being beaten by a baby worm.

“Nesta??” Amren snapped again. “Help hold her!”

The urgency and fear in Amren’s voice startled Nesta more than anything. She was normally so calm; so detached from life or death threats and seeing her this frantic was unnerving. Nesta grabbed hold of Feyre and that unblinking gaze turned on her. Looking through her; a blind terror that crawled up her spine as the thing looking out at her from behind her sisters familiar grey-blue eyes stared into her. And Nesta could see it. A command binding it to life. The truth like cold water: It had no choice.

And slowly, Nesta moved her hands to cup Feyre’s face. She swallowed her fear and closed her eyes. Envisioning a worm coiled behind Feyre’s wild gaze - at first the image that came to her was of a simple earthworm, like the kind Elain would often save from the birds in her garden - but it quickly changed, becoming milky pale, and then short and stumpy in her mind. Like a grub. Or a maggot. A strangely pathetic little thing. Alone. Born in silence. An entire existence waiting for instruction. Waiting for that singlular voice that would make its purpose clear. An order that would give meaning to it’s existence. Waiting to be used. _It was so small,_ Nesta marvelled.

And it was also innocent. It did only what it was told to do, it had little concept of a life beyond that. Beyond the scattering of thoughts it was able to glean.

“ _Forget_ ,” Nesta whispered to it. Her magic passing through Feyre like a breeze. The soft touch of a gentle winters chill. The command it had been given, wrapped around it like string, unravelled at the touch of her magic. She heard the words imprinted on it as though Keir were speaking directly to her. It had been told to kill the High Lord. _Kill him at any cost._ But it was complicated request, and she could feel it’s doubts; frustration and confusion. It had been born to carry out much simpler tasks. “This is not what you were made for,” Nesta cooed to it.

Immediately Feyre stilled and Amren wrenched the knife from her hand as Rhysand’s face relaxed. The wound on his chest began to close as Cassian lowered Feyre to the ground where Nesta put her head in her lap.

“ _Leave_ ,” Nesta commanded it. A new order. A simple task.

And as she moved her hand to her sister’s ear the tiny Wyrm, still covered in blood, slithered out into her palm and Feyre’s eyes closed in sleep. The others stared at her. Amren was smiling.

“You _are_ terrifying,” she beamed at Nesta as though it were a compliment and not a damning statement from a legitimate, self-described monster.

 _Unmaker_. A voice murmured in Nesta’s mind and the creature flexed in her palm, it’s skin withering and it’s body turning to ash. It fell through her fingers. Dust.

“Thank you,” Rhysand said.

“You need to be thanking Cassian. _He_ saved your life _,”_ Nesta chastised him. There was anger in her voice. She’d saved Feyre, not him. Cassian however had been there so often for his brother, that his loyalty, his _sacrifice_ was now simply expected. Family, only when it was of use. Loyal only when it served him. The High Lord had spent too long manipulating and being manipulated.

A deafening thunder sounded overhead and the dust that fell turned to hefty chunks of rock. Rhysand hadn’t done that much damage. Not so much that it would bring the entire ceiling down on them. From her throne, Amarantha’s corpse toppled from her seat, her head rolling across the floor. This was the door to the trap. Amren looked up just as a piece the size of a kitchen table came down and she was forced to winnow out of the way as it landed shattering and splitting. In was instinctual that Nesta grabbed her sister and rolled them out of the way as Cassian pulled a still weak Rhysand with him. But more was falling. Cassian stood pulling Rhysand to his feet and Nesta picked up Feyre like a child. She was stronger than a mortal, it was easy to forget.

“Down there!” The High Lord pointed to a doorway and Cassian took the lead.

“ _Wait_. Where’s _Amren_?” Nesta asked. There was a nervous tremor in her voice at the thought that she might be left behind.

“Wards came up as she was winnowing, bounced her into another chamber,” Rhysand said. His steps growing surer as Cassian kept him moving and he healed. “She’s fine, and Azriel has found Mor,”

“What of Keir or Michel?” Cassian growled.

“They aren’t here,” Nesta said quietly.

“How could you _possibly_ know that?”

“I know that you don’t set off a trap while your own foot is in the snare,” Nesta said between breaths. The ceiling had been timed to come down. The wards designed to come up. All while they were occupied with Feyre and Mor. The collapse was spreading out from the throne room to the rooms and corridors leading to freedom.

Nesta could bring down the wards but unless they could find Amren, Rhysand would need to be able to winnow them all out of this place alone. And Azriel would still be trapped.

“Can you winnow us _to_ Azriel?” Nesta asked. The wards kept them in, but provided they weren’t leaving, it should still be possible.

“Yes,”

“Then do that,”


	30. Chapter 30

The sensation of being winnowed within an area confined by wards was akin to being ripped apart. Every nerve and fiber tearing open in a single moment. Her skin being pulled from her bones, her heart laid open, burning; beating in the darkness. It was an instant of unimaginable pain. The kind of pain that would kill a mortal or a lesser Fae.

And it was wholly familiar to Nesta. She’d experienced something just like it before. Falling in the black waters of the cauldron as it took her body, and unmade her. Seconds that felt like a lifetime, writhing in pain, held together by only will, and rage. By a silent promise to a King who should have known better.

So when they all emerged in what looked to be an underground, overgrown courtyard. Nesta remained on her feet holding Feyre even while Cassian and Rhysand fell to the stone, faces twisted in agony.

The cavern glowed with a blue green aura and Nesta could see the light emanating from the plants that had reclaimed the space. Vines cracked the stone benches and moss concealed the ground like grass . The luminous flora lit every inch of the darkness and they were beautiful. Proof that even in the dark, without the light of the sun, beauty could bloom; even while encased in rock. At it’s core, a fountain still trickled clear water. The statue standing ankle deep in the center was of Amarantha herself. Her features drapped in a benevolence Nesta was positive she had never possessed while rhe water flowed from the veins on her wrists like blood, dripping down into the basin before being fed to the plants and moss through channels in the floor.

But this place was older than Amarantha’s court. And while the newer chambers cracked and fell, this place was a part of the mountain itself and held firm. Keir didn’t have the power to touch this. He was weak. It was inconvenient that he’d had the years to make up for all that weakness with cunning.

Rhysand should have had him killed. Had his supporters killed. Put someone loyal in his place then been able to turn to Illyria and actually make the changes he claimed he wanted without the risk of being stabbed all the way from the Court of Nightmares, where it seemed even Keir’s reach had stretched. Indecision. Fear. And the thought made her want to laugh. He was too inexperienced to rule a territory so vast with this many vipers. Amren’s words to Cassian rang true, outnumbered on a field of battle you didn’t control.

The base beneath the statues feet was darker; older and Nesta idly wondered what Amarantha had torn down to place this likeness of herself here. What had stood in the water before she sullied it with her dirty feet. What purpose this place had had before she staked her claim.

Sitting on one of the benches, Azriel sat cradling a still Mor. His face had been marred by nails. Four bloody streaks clawed from the hairline at his temple to almost the other side of his jaw.

Even at a distance Nesta could feel this would be different. What had willingly crawled from her sisters head had been young. New and confused. It had no experiences of its own. Hadn’t seen enough of life to know what it was missing. This was older. It might not willingly accept any evictions.

But Mor’s body was dying, Nesta could barely see her chest moving. As she approached and Azriel turned his eyes up to meet hers, they were wet. A reminder that even demons could weep when their hearts were broken.

“It’s too late to help her,” he rasped.

“I won’t know until I try,”

Nesta sat beside him and gingerly took Mor’s head into her lap.

When Nesta envisioned it this time, the parasite that sprang into her mind was no small, stubby worm. It was larger. A creature with teeth, slithering around her brain. Even if it were to peacefully leave, Mor would still likely die, and Nesta doubted it would fit out the way it has come. It would need to be taken out another way.

“Forget your orders,” Nesta pushed her will against it’s own.

And there was a laugh. A haunting sound that echoed off the cavern walls. The soft smile on Amarantha’s statue seemed to mock Nesta.

“I _have_ ,” the creature spoke with Mor’s voice. “I serve myself now,”

It seemed only logical that a creature with no prior experience of life could inhabit Mor for just a few days and _that_ would be the lesson it learned.

“Your freedom will be short-lived-”

“But it will _still_ be freedom,”

When Nesta put her hands on Mor it wasn’t the same as with Feyre. Her power wasn’t soft. She wasn’t calm. It wasn’t a light that flickered in her heart; warm and filled with love.

Azriel jerked, almost ripping her from Nesta’s hands when Mor screamed. The noise so pitiable and shrill that Nesta almost let go.

“Freedom is _pain_ ,” Nesta snarled to it.

She dug deep and pushed again. Imagining a red hot razor blade cutting into the parasite. Slicing it up like fine strips of silk. Again the screaming continued.

But Nesta had made a mistake. An assumption that simply because she wasn’t thrashing in Azriel’s grip, that Mor was too weak to move.

While she was focusing on causing it as much pain as possible, white hot hand slapped Nesta square in the face, snapping her head to the side with so much force it felt almost like her neck had broken. When she came around, the cavern, the fountain, Cassian, Rhysand, they were all gone. Nesta stood alone and cold in her old room, in the cabin, where she’d shared a single bed with her sisters. Where they’d starved - _and_ froze. She’d wanted to punish her father. The thought came to Nesta and with it a new kind of agony. A pain that wasn’t physical.

“ _Lies_ ” Mor’s voice echoed. Formless. This was an illusion. A trick to buy the creature time. “You were weak. You would rather it be intent, than admit that the pathetic wretch living in your home wasn’t your father. It was _you_. You didn’t help because you _couldn’t. You didn’t know how,_ ”

“That’s a lie! I’m not helpless,” Nesta spat.

The world spun and she was alone again in that hated run down apartment in Velaris. A males clothes lay strewn across the floor. An image of herself lay still in the bed, only half covered in a thin sheet. Nesta watched herself breathe, saw the exposed ribs pressing against the skin on her back and sides as she drew in cold air. Heard the noises from the bathroom as the male she’d taken to bed urinated and cleaned himself up.

“ _It’s freezing, you should light a fire,”_

“ _Get out,”_ was all she’d said. The male taking a step back as though she’d slapped him.

Nesta didn’t remember his face. He didn’t seem in any way familiar to her. She watched him gather up his clothes and hastily dress before racing out the door. A wraith rose from the bed - pale and too thin - padding naked over to the door and setting the locks again. One at a time. Methodical. The click was still a comfort. A control she could still excercise. Nesta didn’t recognize herself. Sure she’d filled out a little. There were still bones where there shouldn’t but muscle covered more than not. But the face of this woman was hollow. It was foreign to her.

“That’s not me,”

“I do not lie,”

“Everyone lies! You told Cassian I’d rejected him! Rejected the bond,”

“No, _you_ told him,” the voice smiled, tone light. “And you _do_ reject the bond. You cannot deny it,”

“I love Cassian. I have died a thousand times for _him_. I have _killed_ for him!” Nesta spun, looking for a face she could shout into. “I won’t have you tell me I don’t love him. You are a _liar_ ,”

“You will let me die, am I lying?”

The world rippled and darkened, pierced by a glowing light and Nesta realised the illusion was fading. That Mor was dying and the dreamscape was ending.

The cavern came back into view. Cassian and Rhysand standing guard. Mor’s red shirt was stained with Azriel’s silent tears.

_You will let me die!_

Nesta felt a fury she’d never felt before. She wrote her own truth. She made her _own_ choices. She would make a liar out of Mor.

Letting her die, implied there was a way to save her.

“You have the strength to heal a small wound?”

Healing fae was no easy task. Not even for a High Lord. It was complicated. Required power. Mortals were easy.

“How small?”

“Bad split lip, small. Soft tissue,”

“ _Yes_ ,”

“Someone give me a knife,”

Cassian’s hands didn’t tremble though his steps faltered as he gave her the blade Feyre had used against Rhysand. He’d wiped it clean though it was far from sterile. Nesta opened Mor’s mouth, using her own palm to keep her from breaking her teeth, and with the tip of the blade, pierced the back of her throat. Blood spurted out in pumps timed with her slowing heart and Nesta put her hand on her head, found the parasite and poured fire into it.

In her mind and drove forth a single image; one escape from the pain. One way out. It thrashed, and Mor thrashed, and with every convulsion - Mor’s teeth driving through Nesta’s hand and shredding her skin - Nesta pushed harder. Slowly something bloody and earth coloured slithered from her mouth and onto the floor, and Mor went deathly still. Her eyes had begun to weep blood. It ran from her nose and her mouth. Rhysand was there and the moment his hands touched her face the colour began creeping back into it. The flow of blood stopped.

“I’m not a healer. There is no guarantee she’ll recover. If she does, there _will_ be lasting damage,” Rhysand said to Azriel. But she was alive. She was breathing. They weren’t about to be crushed. The parasite was nothing more than a husk when Nesta looked down at it again. She let out a breath. She wished in that moment to be back in Cassian’s arms, back in that tent, on that cot. Where she’d felt safe and he’d smelled like home.

“Are you okay?” Cassian asked her.

“I think I’m tired,” she told him. Her eyes were heavy. Her heart hurt. Her head hurt. Unleashing enormous waves of power was easy. Controlling that enormous power was hard.

Rhysand had passed Feyre to Cassian who cradled her against him but now gathered her back up. Cassian’s hair had fallen from his usual bun and Nesta could see that it had grown at least an inch passed his chin. They’d started this so long ago. They’d both grown.

“Bring down the wards, we need to leave. We need to get to the Court of Nightmares,” the High Lord demanded.

“ _No_ ,” Cassian said, shaking his head. And from the colour Rhysand’s complexion turned, it was the first time he’d heard that word come out of Cassian’s mouth.

“I can do it, Cassian,” Nesta told him. She had the power. There was no reason to argue. She didn’t _need_ protecting.

“It _wasn’t_ a request,” The High Lord said with authority.

“ _No_. We are in no condition to _go_ anywhere. Forget about the fact that Keir likely has spies checking to make sure the wards stay up,” Cassian looked down at a still unconscious Feyre - at a half dead Mor. “Are you trying to get us killed?”

“Keir needs to be seen to!”

“He’s needed to _die_ from the moment you became High Lord -” Cassian snarled, his temper rising. “-the moment he left Mor in Autumn, raped to within an inch of her life,” he said sucking in a low breath, “Every breath you let him take since that moment is an insult to us all,”

“Let’s not forget how she ended up in that predicament. What happened was _not_ my fault,”

Nesta had been right, life as a fae was simply living long enough to be crushed by the weight of your own collective traumas.

“Arguing now is _pointless_ ,” Azriel’s voice finally broke the tension; a low hiss. “Cassian is right, in that we are in no danger for the moment, we should _wait_. Keir will know you aren’t dead, but if we wait and leave the wards up a little longer he may believe us to be trapped,” he said. His voice was even but there was a muscle twitching in his jaw. His face was a mask now holding back a storm. “Moving Mor before she wakes will likely kill her,”

The response seemed measured but Nesta knew the ‘no’ was as solid as Cassian’s.

“She’ll be fine-” but Rhysand, stopped mid-sentence. A hand came up and touched his cheek.

“ _Rhys_?”

Feyre was awake.


	31. Chapter 31

Feyre was standing within minutes; weak and unsteady on her feet, but alert. Mor however didn’t wake. Her breathing had evened and her heart continued to beat strongly, but she didn’t move; limp and wrapped in Azriel’s arms. She needed a _legitimate_ healer. Though there wasn’t a single Fae in Prythian who’d survived what she’d gone through. Not one. Nesta didn’t know who they could go to.

Amren emerged from the darkness after an hour or so, covered in dust but other than a sour mood, she seemed unhurt. But she was quiet. More so than usual.

Nesta felt exhaustion weighing heavily on her. She sunk down into a bed of soft moss in a quiet corner of the cavern to rest; recover something of herself before she had break them out of this place. Her hand throbbed. Mor’s teeth had sunk in deeply and Nesta knew that infection was basically an inevitability, but she was High Fae now, she had time she wouldn’t have had as a mortal. But there would most assuredly be a scar. Nesta lay back and closed her eyes. Her dress was ripped up and covered in blood and she found herself missing the ease of boots and leathers.

She sensed movement above her and a body settling down beside her beneath the glowing ferns. She’d have recognized Feyre blind. Her sister’s movements were slow and cautious. As if her limbs weren’t to be trusted yet. Unsure if they were still her own.

“Thank you,” Feyre said.

But Nesta had only done what she should have done from the start. She was the eldest. She had a duty to protect her family.

“Rhysand is grateful,” Feyre added and Nesta dug her fingers into the moss gouging up pieces with her nails.

“Has he lost the ability to speak for himself, now?” she said with scorn.

“ _No_ , it’s _this_ _place_ \- he hides the worst of what she did to him here, but what glimpses I can see are - ” Feyre winced closing her eyes against it. The memories that she’d pried out. “ - he’s desperate to leave, here,”

This place had been, and still very much was his prison. And Rhysand wasn’t thinking rationally. Nesta could understand. She’d killed Cassian’s father for spitting on him. Destroyed a city because someone thought to use her against those she cared about. In that regard, at least Rhysand was acting sane. Nesta would be melting the rock already, if their roles were reversed. He would be a liar if he claimed he’d been unaffected by being here.

She knew she shouldn’t expect too much more. He _had_ been trying to speak to her, she recognized that and appreciated the effort. Though Nesta knew he didn’t fully trust her. For all his talk about them being family, he’d only actually opened honest discussion with her after realizing just what she was capable of; knowing her connection to Cassian. He’d had very little consideration for her when she was simply Feyre’s argumentative, cold, very human sister. He’d have had none at all without Feyre.

Nesta didn’t say anything else on the matter. For all the times she would otherwise call her - Feyre wasn’t _actually_ stupid.

“You look good, Nesta,” she said, changing the topic. “Muscle and sun - they suit you,”

“ _Filth_ is an acquired taste _,_ ” Nesta snorted. Turning her head to the side to look at her sister. The rings beneath her eyes were dark and her skin was the colour of ash. “ _You’ve_ looked better. I can recommend a healer once we’re free of this place. Flies like a complete lunatic. You’d like her _._ ”

“Making friends?” Feyre laughed before her expression became solemn and silence came down between them like a wall.

She reached out and touched Nesta’s hand in earnest, the simply touch giving her enough strength to continue. “I’m sorry. I should never have agreed to send you away,”

“I don’t _want_ an apology,” Nesta snapped back. She honestly didn’t. Exile might have been the best thing to happen to her. She’d been able to make her own decisions - many of those turned out to be grave mistakes, but they were _hers_. She’d had purpose and power over her own life.

“But you deserve one. I should have been there for you, Nesta. I thought because Amren was there you’d be okay,” she could hear the tears in her voice, smell the salt. “But it should have been me there to help you,”

“Like _I_ was there for you?” The self-loathing in Nesta voice was impossible to hide and she bit her tongue hard.

“That was my fault for sending you away. And even if you were here you wouldn’t have been able to do anything, Nesta,” Feyre said sadly. “No one _else_ was,”

Nesta noticed the way her sisters hands drifted to her abdomen almost without thinking. She remembered the babies room. Every inch of Feyre’s home now painted in grief.

“That’s not what I’m talking about,” Nesta said dejected, her eyes fixed on the iridescent leaves hovering above her. Uncomfortable with the words that were forming. “I’m the eldest, and I should have been the one to protect you both. I should have fought for you. I should have taken care of you. But I abandoned you,” Nesta felt her airway, her throat constrict, “It should have been _me_ that took up a bow and went out hunting, not you,”

Feyre had the nerve to snort. And then break down in full belly shaking laughter. Nesta froze, her heart aching. Her mouth clamping shut. It _stung,_ she realised. To open yourself up and be hurt. But it wasn’t the end of the world. Feyre was watching her closely and noticed her expression change.

“I didn’t mean it like that. I just imagined our places reversed and all the many, wretched ways you’d have broken Tamlin like a horse, before putting a knife in Amarantha’s chest,” Feyre smiled at her. “I was _so_ stupid. I don’t think you’d have been nearly as clueless. I’d have _paid_ to see that,”

Nesta hadn’t realized she was crying till a cold tear slipped across her face and into her ear. She wiped her cheek with the edge of a dirty sleeve.

“Her corpse is still in the throne room, if I can figure out how to winnow, you can see it for free,” Nesta deadpanned. “ _And_ that moron is still sulking in the Spring Court. We could always take a trip,”

“That was a joke!” Feyre exclaimed. “You do have a sense of humour!”

“It’s a sense of shame I lack, _not_ humour. And I was being entirely serious,” Nesta huffed, one eyebrow raised.

“We were left carrying a lot of burdens we were too young to carry,” Feyre said suddenly seriously. “I don’t blame you,”

“You _should_ ,” Nesta snapped. “I was callous,”

“And _we_ were blind,”

Nesta paused for a moment before sitting up on her forearms. It was strange having such an easy, candid conversation with her sister after so long.

“Mor’s awake,” Feyre said suddenly. Nesta watched her struggle to her feet for only a moment before standing and offering her arm. Her sisters eyes were wet when she took it, and together they made their way back to the others.

Azriel was still holding her limp body but Mor’s eyes were open. She opened her mouth to speak but only squeaky air escaped in a hoarse hiss.

“Mor shouldn’t be moved yet,” Azriel said, knowing Rhysand would be asking that next.

“Then stay here with her until she can be,” Nesta offered. “Amren will stay with you,”

“And what about Keir? How are you going to get in?”

“How are we going to get into our own Court?” Feyre growled out. “We’re going to walk straight in through the doors and anyone in our way is going to die. And anyone that speaks up about that will _die_ ,”

“There are stores of artifacts and powerful weapons in the Court of Nightmares, Michel is likely there too, and any number of his warriors, you don’t know what’s waiting for you there,”

“They also don’t know what’s coming for them,” Feyre snarled. They were both so reckless. Or perhaps one made the other. Nesta didn’t know or care. It was stupid to keep running like this. The traps had been sprung and they’d escaped. Keir likely thought he was hours away from victory.

“We’ll take our chances,” Rhysand said a little too quickly and Feyre touched his arm; Nesta watched him swallow a thick lump.

“I don’t recommend - ” Amren started to say but Rhysand dared to cut her off. Azriel and Cassian shared a look between them that Nesta wasn’t able to decipher.

“No more on this, follow us when she can be moved,” the High Lord turned to Nesta. “Bring down the wards,”

Nesta crossed her arms.

“Is that _all_?”

Rhysand grumbled, catching a stern glare from his wife. “ _Nesta, would you please bring down the ward_ s?” he asked through gritted teeth. Biting into every word.

Feyre gave Nesta a meaningless apologetic smile.

Nesta focused on the magic permeating the Court. It was easier than Feyre’s house. Wards raised by a lesser magic outside of the Court fueling it’s power. The spell crumbled at a thought . _Unmaker_. The Cauldron whispered again.

And Nesta knew, the power she stole was the power to unravel the world itself.

They left Amren and Azriel guarding Mor and emerged threw darkness into the cold night air. That initial breath felt like the first time she’d filled her lungs in a while and Nesta’s face broke into a wide smile. Amarantha’s old court was built over something more ancient than Nesta reckoned even the High Lords knew, and it was good to be free of it.

The High Lord however collapsed to his knees and threw up into the grass, gasping for air. Feyre knelt beside him, rubbing circles between his shoulders.

There was no point in asking what was wrong, they all knew. Between that and the wound in his chest likely still healing, he and Feyre were not at their full strength.

“Come on, up you come,” Cassian grunted, hauling Rhys to his feet. “You’re going nowhere tonight, we can camp out till morning. We might have Amren and Azriel by then,”

“That’s not the plan, Cassian,”

Cassian looked to Feyre. “It is if my High Lady agrees,”

Nesta frowned and Feyre gave her an uneasy look.

“I agree,”

“ _Good,”_ Cassian laughed, his voice sing song _, “_ I’d hate to have to tell you to piss off, too,”


	32. Chapter 32

Cassian didn’t sleep, instead taking watch for the night while Rhysand seemed to sulk, legs stretched out in front of him. He sat there, resting on one elbow, pulling up blades of grass while trying not to appear as angry as he was. Nesta noted how Cassian insisted on lighting a fire with pieces of flint, even as Feyre scowled at him while he struggled with the damp wood; she could have lit it with a thought but Nesta could feel Cassian’s desire to be of use. Eventually the fire sprang to life and the forest around them became all the darker, but the heat on Nesta’s face was wonderful and put her instantly at ease. The crackle of the flames no longer bothered her. When she thought back to the day her father had died, she found the memories devoid of almost any feeling now.

The High Lord and Lady fell asleep curled together in the grass as Nesta and Cassian watched over them. Feyre’s head on Rhysand’s chest and for all the many reasons Nesta disliked him, she knew he loved her sister. Loved her more than sense and reason. They could disagree on a hundred thousand things but the lengths they would go to for her weren’t among them. He’d rushed recklessly into Amarantha’s old court, but Nesta had followed him, all to save Feyre.

Across the flames Cassian sat alone, and the urge Nesta had to be close to him - to curl in at his side and under his wings was tangible. He was troubled, Nesta could feel it.

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,”

“For someone who apparently knows more about Fae mating bonds than I do, you seem to have forgotten how ineffective it is to blatantly _lie_ ,”

“You saved her life” Cassian said softly. He looked blankly into the darkness.

“You _expected_ me to let her die?”

“No, _no -_ ,” he shook his head sharply. But she saw the downcast look in his eyes, _felt_ the shame. “I’d - accepted she was going to die. We all had. And - ” he glanced at Rhysand, “- some _evil_ part of me was relieved,” the admission hurt him. For all her faults, Mor wasn’t some fairytale villain. Nesta could tell without the bond- without even looking at him that Cassian had come face to face with a part of himself that left him repulsed, and he was shaken.

Because it would suddenly all be so much simpler without her there. Mor had used him, but he’d been using her as well. To antagonize Nesta into action. Perhaps force a confession. Maybe even to soothe his ego; quieten his own insecurities. To be wanted. To belong. These were his weak points. But Mor was becoming unnecessary. The third wheel. A reminder of Cassian’s many mistakes.

“It’s not evil, just cowardice,” Nesta said, staring at him. Her expression unwavering.

Cassian snorted, then groaned, rubbing his eyes. Knowing she was right. Nesta didn’t pull her punches and she’d always held him to account.

She sucked in a breath, to steady her own nerves.

“Mor was right when she said I didn’t want the mating bond,” she admitted, observing the way Cassian clenched his fists. The pain in his face was a physical blade that cut them both. “I didn’t want to be controlled like that _,”_ Nesta said, her voice low. She looked at Feyre and Rhysand. “Look at what it’s done to them. He’d be dead without a room of people holding his hand and _you_ holding his leash,” she sighed, “My sister was almost killed because of it,” Nesta moved around the fire to sit at Cassian’s side. “I wanted love to be enough,”

He smiled down at her and she reached up to touch his cheek. There was a flicker of remembrance in his eyes; of fire and rock and the love of his life who’d refused to leave him. And a feeling of falling, his vision filled by the sight of burning Illyrian wings blotting out the night sky.

“Your love will always be more than I deserve,” he said softly, taking her hand. She’d never shield him from the truth. Even when it was painful.

Nesta watched his eyes fall on her hand. On the bite swelling there. There had been so much blood on her, it was impossible to tell who’d noticed the wound.

“Let me see?” he asked, extending his palm to her.

There was an immediate urge to pull it back but Nesta didn’t and the instant his skin made contact the throbbing pain lessoned.

“This will scar - ,” he looked at her, his eyes narrowing, “- _badly,”_ An accusation in his voice. Chastisement for not speaking up earlier.

Nesta felt a smile pull at the corners of her mouth.

“A reminder of my magnanimous nature, then,”

“You’re a _masochist_ ,” Cassian whispered through chortling laughter, lifting her hand and kissing her fingers. “You should sleep,”

“I don’t want to sleep,” Nesta sighed. “I want to keep watch with you,”

And Cassian wrapped an arm around her as Nesta pressed herself in at his side. She didn’t remember dozing off but when she woke, her head resting in his lap; Cassian and Rhysand were talking in hushed voices, the sun was rising and Feyre was gone.

“She’s bringing Mor to a healer in the Dawn Court with Amren, Azriel is on his way here,” Rhysand said, noticing her eyes scouring their temporary camp. The fire was just warm embers now.

The High Lord of the night court looked better. His usual composed demeanor. That arrogant smirk creasing his ageless face - the one she always felt like slapping off. Nesta was stiff, climbing to her feet and brushing herself down. The bite on her hand was closed now. Just a red jagged mark between her small finger and wrist.

Azriel brought food for them and armour for Cassian. Nesta had grown so used to seeing him in a shirt, or seeing his chest bare - the swirl of those tattoos that often left her mesmerized, that the heavy armour made him look like a stranger. The helmet hiding his face, cloaking his eyes in shadow. She missed the sight of his red siphons. The only thing Azriel couldn’t replace. _Ritual_ , was what Cassian had said was required when she’d asked.

But of all the things Azriel had brought at Rhysand’s request, there was a single set of Illyrian leathers for Nesta and she’d never been happier to be able to shed the shredded, dirt and blood encrusted dress that was now stuck to her. Growing up, she’d never worn anything but gowns, but she now understood Feyre’s attraction to the alternative.

They flew northeast shortly after dawn.

The Hewn City; Nesta had been there only once before. She remembered the feeling of unwelcoming eyes everywhere. Glaring at her. Walking into the Court of Nightmares was like walking into a den of hungry wolves. There was an old savagery in it; ancient violence, rigid, systemic cruelty. The evil in Amarantha’s court was a paltry, flickering shadow in comparison. Like a poisoned wine that had been watered down. But now, there was an unnerving stillness. And empty silence in the city. The residents of the Court were in hiding. Or laying in wait.

Rhysand sauntered ahead of them, followed closely by Cassian, Nesta hovering close to him while Azriel protected their rear. On Cassian’s armor glowed seven siphons. Illusions generated by Rhysand. Mostly for show. Ruling from the Court of Nightmares had almost always been about showing strength, even when it wasn’t always there.

They cut an impressive line through the city for all appearances. And despite her personal feelings on him, where Rhysand stepped, Nesta could feel the city responding to him. Calling to him. It awaited his command. Like Calcarum had called to her. This was _his_ city. As much as he might have loved Velaris, the Court of Nightmares was in his blood.

Climbing the steps leading to the throne room, Nesta spied two Illyrian warriors guarding the doors with spears, and to her confusion they had the nerve to cross them at the High Lord’s advance. Rhysand’s steps didn’t falter. He didn’t slow down. He cocked his head to the side with brief curiosity and clicked his tongue, and the warriors with the spears dropped them, falling to their knees, screaming; clutching their heads in agony. This wasn’t Keir’s plan. Blocking the way with spears? There was only one predictable outcome for that. Cassian had passed the doorway when Nesta felt them. More wards tingling along her skin.

 _Rhysand_ , she announced to him, her mind open.

 _I know, I feel them,_ he replied.

 _Up, or down?_ Nesta asked _._

He didn’t immediately reply, and instead of words she heard a terrifying laugh. It echoed in the halls and off the steps. A reminder for anyone listening that this place bowed to only one monster.

Behind her there was the sound of a blade being drawn and the sharp tang of blood in the air. The cries from the warriors at the door disappeared as Azriel ended their lives. Six months ago this all would have horrified Nesta. She’d have been sick with the smell of it. The sound of the scrape of a blade would have sent her heart racing. But she’d changed, this was her new world, and to a certain degree she’d come to terms with that.

“High Lord Rhysand, you grace us with your presence,” Keir announced from the High Lord’s throne. Feyre’s seat had been ripped down; only an empty space remained.

“Be silent!” Rhysand snarled and like a puppet, Keir’s mouth clamped closed and he dropped to his knees and out of Rhysand’s seat as though bound; his eyes wide.

And then there was the sound of creaking wood and the whistle of arrows from the darkness on either side of them. Azriel threw up a shield around them; a bubble of blue light but the shafts of ash wood pierced it like water. Rhysand moved, centuries of experience on the battlefield, the arrow aiming for his chest missed, catching him only in the shoulder. Nesta looked around for their attackers but the chamber appeared empty. The wards, they weren’t wards at all. They were an illusion.

Ahead she watched Cassian knock an arrow from the air with a sword, and Nesta knew from it’s trajectory, it was meant for her. As he blocked it another zipped by his thigh and blood hit the stone as it tore open flesh. Nesta snarled and lifted a hand. Around them the illusion fell like a tower of cards and eight warriors appeared out of thin air. Rhysand, Cassian and Azriel charged, knocking arrows aside, when they got too close to their attackers, the archers dropped their bows and pulled out swords. Nesta focused on the blades and roars erupted all around, the blades turning white hot. The swords falling as molten slag at their feet.

“ _Unmaker_ ,” Nesta whispered to herself, understanding what that meant now. Illyrians were said to have been born from the fires of Calcarum. Darius - the Lord back at the camp; the pillar of flame. Nesta knew what her power did to _them_.

Some of the warriors scrambled to pick up their bows again but they were too slow. Blood splattered her boots as they died and Nesta realised that they were demons - her mate and his brother’s. Creatures of shadow and fire and night. When the fighting stopped, Nesta watched Rhysand pull the arrow from his shoulder and throw it away hissing as if it burned.

“Poison?” Cassian asked, wrinkling his nose.

“ _Yes_ ,” the High Lord sighed.

Nesta almost stumbled. Feyre dying left Rhysand half insane; she wasn’t about to allow that to happen to her sister.

“Should we be concerned?”

“I’ve been poisoned before,” Rhysand said, laughing it off unconvincingly.

Nesta frowned. _Of course_.

With the fighting over, Keir had vanished. The ash was enough to break Rhysand’s hold over him and he’d fled out into the city.

Azriel seemed to melt into the darkness, the smile on his face as it cut to shadow sending chills up Nesta’s spine. How many hundreds of years had he waited for this opportunity? The day when Keir’s use and clemency expired. When Azriel would be unleashed.

Nesta knew he wouldn’t be getting far, and his fate likely would have been kinder had he stayed to face the High Lord’s judgement.

“Rhys?” Cassian touched his shoulder. A genuine question as to how he was holding up.

“I need to sleep for a month. And I need a healer to take a shard of ash out of my shoulder. And I may have lost a bet to Amren,”

Nesta couldn’t suppress the laugh that came up passed her lips in an undignified snort. She was young by their standards, but old enough to know that Amren didn’t place bets. She didn’t gamble. If she made a wager with you, if was a game she’d already won.

“We need to find the Lord Michel,” Cassian said, sheathing his sword. He brushed Nesta’s arm with his palm. There was blood on his hands and they left a stain on her otherwise clean garb. “Are you okay?”

“I’m not hurt,” she said, covering his hand with her own.

“The missing Lord is in the Court vaults, trying to work out a way of claiming Keir’s payment,” Rhysand said. The information stolen from his uncle’s mind before he escaped.

What concerned Nesta was that they found no one but Michel’s warriors. The Court of Nightmares seemed to have been emptied. The cruel and violent High Fae residing here had vanished and she could only fathom one place they would be going. The city Rhysand had kept from them.

The vaults were larger than anything Nesta was expecting. The ceiling was covered in paintings and frescoes but hung so high above her that even with her Fae eyes she couldn’t make out most. What she _could_ see made her glad the rest was obscured. Violent depictions of torture and slaughter. The burning of cities. They walked passed mounds of gold and jewels. Enchanted armours and shields. Cursed chalices teetering on narrow pedestals. And finally Rhysand brought them to a stop beside an alcove, where Michel stood hunched over a golden crown of knives and red and black gems. He clutched his right hand to his abdomen and she smelled the burned flesh before she saw the charred stump resting at the end of his arm.

“The Crown of Gallius, the last Illyrian King,” Rhysand extended his hand, presenting it to Cassian and Nesta. She was momentarily too stunned by it’s beauty to ponder why Michel would risk so much to possess it. “Keir neglected to mention that it answered only to Gallius himself. Even _dead_ , it still belongs to him. It cost my great grandfather a thousand warriors to bring it back here to the vault after Gallius was slain in Calcarum. And my great grandfather did _not_ survive the trip,” Rhysand smiled at Michel and the Lord spit at his feet.

“My sons died fighting your war and then my mate took her own life,” The Lord wept. “She would give me no more children to send to your slaughter,”

There was real pain in his face, and _a madness_ she hadn’t noticed before. Nesta realized that this was likely the fate of all Fae who would survive the loss of their mate.

“I’m sorry,” Rhysand said, and there was genuine remorse in his voice. “Is that what you’ve risked all this for, a crown?”

“They will follow me if I can wear it. If I can unite them, we can be free of your families tyranny,” he grit out through the anguish.

But he couldn’t wear it - couldn’t touch it even. Michel fell to his knees sobbing before the crown. For all his arrogance, his crimes, he’d made it this far to be broken by the weight of inadequacy.

Nesta stepped toward the alcove and hovered a hand over it, feeling the familiar ripples of power. The fire and heat that blew off it in waves; having been awoken after so long in slumber. She smiled. Even as beads of sweat dripped off her brow. She could tear apart it’s power. Render it a useless hunk of gold if she wished. Michel was looking for a trinket to unite Illyria but Rhysand had made the same mistake; there were no quick fixes. No substitute for the actual work needed to rebuild.

“Nesta!” Cassian called to her and she turned.

She turned into the knife Michel had pulled from his belt


	33. Chapter 33

Nesta didn’t immediately feel the blade sliding in. It hadn’t hurt so much as it had felt strange. Like falling in the winter. A numbness. A distant pain beneath. Her eyes tracked downward as everything slowed around her and she saw Rhysand’s eyes widening, saw Cassian bursting into a sprint. Nesta saw the fear in his eyes. Enough for her overly rational mind to know that this was a killing blow. Fae weren’t as easily slain as mortals, but they _could_ be slain.

It had sunk in just below the ribs in the middle of her abdomen, the edge angled upwards and Nesta could feel her heartbeat jumping in unsteady thumps. An out of sequence rhythm. All of this flickering through her mind as she realized that Lord Michel had stabbed her in the heart. That this was the end of her journey. This was her death.

As slow as the world had moved before, things suddenly began moving very quickly for Nesta. In an instant Michel was gone, she didn’t see his head hit the stone so much as she heard it, the crack of his skull. The blade disappeared with him and as blood finally began pouring out into her hands, Nesta felt a very mortal sensation turn her legs to jelly and she fell forward into Cassian’s arms. He set her down, propping her up against the wall of the alcove.

“HEAL HER!”

“I can’t,” Rhysand’s voice broke, as he drove his fingers into the wound looking for the splinter of wood that was keeping him from his magic. But even if he found it, the poison in his veins, the extent of her wounds, he knew he didn’t have that sort of power, “I’m _sorry_ , Cassian,”

The High Lord didn’t struggle as his General took him by the collar and shook him.

“I HAVE KILLED AND BLED FOR YOU!” Cassian roared. “YOU!” he shouted. “Not the High Lord of the Night Court - _you_ , my _brother,”_ He practically lifted Rhysand from his feet. His toes scratching stone. _“HEAL HER!”_

Nesta felt Cassian’s pain. The desperation inside him. It was pure anguish. She was no seer but she saw the future clear enough. She saw an eventual war. Saw Cassian blame Rhysand for it all. Nesta could see the bodies of her friends lying still on an earth soaked in blood. Witnessed Cassian fall from the sky pierced with night and blade. Her sisters torment knowing the part she’d played in it all.

Her death would be his end. It was an inevitability. The mating bond would leave him like Michel. Perhaps at one time he’d been decent. Tears slipped down Nesta’s cheeks as she found that tie inside herself, that iron forged link to Cassian that had been strong enough to hold all the fire in Calcarum and Nesta grit her teeth and yanked it free.

Her eyes closed and her chest filled with an icy cold as Nesta Archeron severed her own mating bond. And as Cassian released Rhysand and staggered back, clutching at his chest in horror, she sobbed her apologies. For all the wrongs she’d commited. For all the petty, spiteful things she’d said and done.

The High Lord ceased to exist in that instant as Cassian scrambled to her, taking her hand in his. A part of his soul calling out to her across a vast darkness. Howling.

“Where is that time you promised?” he wept, angry tears staining his face. “How will I find you, now?”

And Nesta smiled sadly. _This life or the next._

“Things…older than magic,” she uttered, her voice dying out, finally losing consciousness.

Cassian turned to Rhysand screaming.

“Something here can help her. _Anything -_ the _armour?”_

The image of the chestplates and shields that they’d passed on the way through sprung to his mind. Illyrian armour. Still inlayed with their siphons. He’d never healed anyone, he was built for death, not life, but so was Nesta and he was still here as proof that when you’re stubborn enough, when the odds are great enough, anything is possible. But Rhysand shook his head.

“Ornaments only; the real siphons were removed,”

And Cassian stood, a dead, determined gaze turning to the crown with it’s black and red stones and he knew that there _were_ siphons that the Night Court would never have been able to strip away. Because not even a High Lord of Prythian could touch it.

He reached out a hand to take it but Rhysand caught his arm.

“ _That_ will kill you,” he hissed. Eyes wide. “You have no idea what you’re doing!”

“I have to _try_!” Cassian snarled.

“You’ll _die_ ,”

“I’m already dead” Cassian said wrenching his arm free from his brother’s grasp.

“You swore an oath to me,” Rhysand finally bit out, biting down on the words. “You would break that?”

“ _Fuck off, Rhys_ ,”

And Cassian pulled the crown from the cushion it sat upon; his world exploding in fire, he heard Rhysand distantly call his name. He roared dropping to one knee as flames licked his arms and erupted in his hands. But he held it, his skin blistering and blackening, but he gripped it firm and with arms shaking, Cassian sat the crown on his head. And the pain that seared through him was familiar. Burning him from the inside. He’d felt this magic before. It had blazed away inside him after Calcarum had erupted. The city’s magic and it’s wards purchased with the life of the last King. That magic, albeit a tiny part still existed in him.

Though, Cassian didn’t wait to see how it might killed him, instead he reached for Nesta and pulled her into his arms and every thought, every thing he possessed, he translated to a single spell, a single act. One will.

“ _Heal her_ ,”

This magic had done it before. Nesta had healed him with it. Brought him back from the brink of death with it. He bit down so hard he tasted blood. The fire from the crown cooled, and though the flames still licked his skin, it no longer burned him. Cassian held her close and stood, bringing his face to hers. Till their brows touched and he could feel her breath again.

“Cassian?” Voices; inconsequential and unimportant, drifted at the edge of Cassian’s awareness but all he could focus on was the heartbeat in his hands and how every beat grew stronger than the last.

_Heal her,_

A breathy sigh brushed his face and Cassian opened his eyes to fire. Burning all around him. Crawling across Nesta’s skin in waves and ripples like water. Slithering up his arms like a serpent.

Her eyes cracked open just a little and Cassian felt relief he’d never experienced before.

“Found you,” he said smiling before he pressed his lips to hers and the cord that Nesta had severed hummed once more in his chest. As long as she loved him, as long as they truly loved each other mating bonds could never truly be broken.

When Cassian straightened he found Rhysand standing, staring at him, his eyes were hard. Azriel stood at his side and at his feet, Keir hung bloodied and limp, dangling by the collar of his shirt. He was missing an arm. _Azriel had taken his left arm._ And worse, had left him with just enough life in his body to experience the full terrible after effects of that.

The fire dissipated and Cassian’s wings twitched uncertainly. Nesta wasn’t bleeding anymore and her heart was steady. And Cassian found that whatever happened next, he would live with, once it was a life with her.

“I release you from your oath to me,” Rhysand growled at him. He held up a hand and Cassian physically felt the marks that bound him to the Nigh Court lift from his flesh. The High Lord swallowed. A tremor of fear quickly passing over his face. “I release the Illyrian tribes from their duty to the Night Court,” his voice was low.

Cassian staggered a half step forward, confused. His expression one of hurt. Joy to pain and back again between beats of his tired heart. He knew what came next.

“Rhys?” Cassian called to him. His voice broken.

“We don’t have anything more to say to each other, now get the _hell_ out of my Court,”


	34. Chapter 34

When Nesta had woken she was outside, greeted by the horizon at dawn. The gold and vibrant reds glimmering over the horizon, blotted by the line of the Illyrian steppes in the distance. She’d sat up, blankets and furs falling away from her. And Cassian had looked up at her from across the flames of the small fire, smiling gently. Across his brow a tattoo now lingered like a band. Tiny stars and swords dotted now across his forehead.

“What happened?” Nesta had asked.

And he’d told her. Told her how Keir had sent the Court of Nightmares forth to the walls of Velaris, anticipating his ascension to the throne. His failure. The High Fae stupid enough to March ended up crushed between the city wards, Rhysand’s female legions and the Illyrian free forces that had flown south when the insurrection north had been crushed. How Michel’s warriors and Keir’s paid mercenaries had underestimated their opponents and been slaughtered. The Illyrian people rising up; a bloody wave of retribution for the suffering and deaths he’d caused. Many learned that even a female with clipped wings could still swing a sword. And Cassian told Nesta how a single figure had led the final charge against the Court of Nightmares, taking all the fire for the warriors at her back. How she would seem to be hit and fall, only to rise again moments later. How those who’d fought from the Court had fled back to the Hewn City in terror, only to find Rhysand waiting for them. Sitting on the throne, having had a consecutive number of very, _very_ bad days.

The High Lord of the Night Court had each and every single one of them executed in the throne room while Keir watched in chains. Rhysand had had his own relatives put to the sword. All but Keir himself; his punishment Rhysand said belonged to Mor and her alone. She hadn’t returned to Velaris, still with the healers of the Dawn Court last Cassian had heard; her recovery not without its problems. But things had changed in the dynamic between them all, Nesta could feel it. Azriel hadn’t been to see Mor yet, and it had been his choice to go with them to the Hewn city instead of the Dawn Court. Nesta remembered Keir’s arm. It hadn’t been cut with a blade, _it had been ripped off_. Whatever it was that had transpired between them in the Courtyard Under the Mountain, Azriel and Mor’s relationship was not as it had been.

It wasn’t the only one.

As Cassian flew Nesta to the steps she saw the first glimmers of what the future might look like for the Illyrian people. Cassian had said she’d been unconscious for three weeks, but it had seemed far longer looking at the progress they’d made. What they flew over were not war camps but fledgeling towns, made of timber and stone buildings. Warriors, male and female could still be seen training and running drills but there was something different about it. People laughed. And as the flew, Nesta realised that she’d never been to a camp that wasn’t somber. Cassian was actually the only Illyrian she’d known with a love of jokes and innocent laughter. An act of rebellion in and of itself growing up in places like this. To find the small joys. Cassian brought them to land as they passed over a large town, the temporary barricades that always seemed a permanent fixture in the camps were now growing into actual walls; with gates, and guards.

And Nesta stilled. She hadn’t immediately recognized it. There were no scrawny children fighting in the dirt and there were people, clean, well fed people going about their daily lives, merchants and other Fae too, wandering the streets between traders stalls. It had grown since she’d seen it last, nearly twice the size she remembered but while every facet had seemed new - even the tavern, the old Lord’s house had been left untouched. The same furniture. And drapes. The same painting hanging in the hall. The Temple of Calcarum. Before Nesta had swallowed it in fire. Cassian had set her in bed while Tepia and Mara fussed and ordered him out.

“Get some rest. I’ll be back in a few days,” he’d told her, taking off, still carrying the wrapped bundle that hadn’t left his belt once. She hadn’t been there a single day when Nesta heard a familiar voice from the hall outside her room.

“ _Nesta_!” Masha practically roared her name loud enough that it shook the glass in the windows. The door exploding open so fast the handle put a hole in Nesta’s wall; the girl racing to her side and pulling her from the mattress in a hug, smiling widely.

Nesta was taken aback when Masha released her and she got a better look. A deep scar through her chin and bottom lip. One over her right eye. Still an attractive girl, but there was a new hardness in her features. Nesta had seen war. Seen the things that happened on the battlefield. She couldn’t imagine what Masha had lived through. There were many more marks that she could see - probably more she couldn’t, disappearing beneath her Illyrian warrior armour. Running down her throat and on her hands and wings. Across her chest, five dark siphons shone green in the sunlight, inset on a commanders sigil. Soldier’s garb.

Masha noticed Nesta staring at her scars and grinned.

“You’ve a few new ones yourself,” she laughed and Nesta brought her hand to her chest. To the pink blemish she new was fading beneath her ribs.

“They really let you in their army? The way you fly?” Nesta teased her and Masha narrowed her eyes and cocked her head to the side.

“I _am_ the army,” she said straightening and Nesta laughed.

“How are things out there?”

“Some things are still the same. There’s still Lords and Lord’s sons bickering and fighting over a few inches of land, but they’ve all bowed. The female legions have begun to integrate. _Lots_ of arguments to keep me busy,”

A wave of exhaustion hit Nesta again and she wavered in the bed, Masha caught her and lowered her back to the mattress. She’d been growing stronger by the day but the weakness was always just lingering.

“Cassian really is a shit healer,” Masha deadpanned. Where her hands made contact with Nesta a soothing warmth passed through her, easing aches and pains she hadn’t realized were there. “He made a bit of a mess….too much scar tissue, but this should speed things up. Another week or so you’ll probably be back to full strength, _terrorizing_ the Lords,” She looked to the door as if expecting someone to walk through.

“Thank you,” Nesta said but Masha laughed, and _bowed_.

“You don’t need to thank me,” she said, shaking her head. “I’ve to be at the conclave in an hour, but I’ll drop in again. In the meantime, Tepia says there’s a High Fae lady to see you downstairs. Turned up uninvited - ” Masha laughed, “- so she told her to wait in the kitchen and gave her a pot of roots to peel,”

Feyre and Elain’s faces, even Amren sprung to mind immediately and Nesta didn’t believe how much the thought excited her. “Send her up!”

But that excitement faded when a head of blond hair stepped through Nesta’s doorway and it seemed that all the good humour, all the warmth Masha had left behind died in the darkness of Nesta’s new mood. Her eagerness evaporating like smoke. She opened her mouth about to tell Morrigan to get out but clamped it shut finally taking her in. Mor’s arm - her left arm from the shoulder to her fingertips was gone, replaced with a limb of inscribed gold and intricate gears.

“Your arm?”

“I’m apparently lucky it was just the one. The toxin that little beast released on it’s exit spread pretty quickly,” she turned the arm this way and that, examining it. “Don’t pity me, please. I… actually quite like it,” Mor smiled and the gold morphed to flesh, the gears vanishing. An illusion to give the appearance of her old limb.

And Keir’s mutilation finally made a horrible, horrifying sense. Azriel’s rage. That terrible anger. Nesta had a pang of fear for Elain but crushed it. Her sisters, _both_ of her sisters were capable of making their own decisions. And mistakes.

Rhysand’s third in command dropped herself into one of the chairs by Nesta’s bedside and put her expensive boots up on the side table. Nesta stared at the dirty soles - at the marks she left against the wood, and frowned.

“Is there a reason you’re here?”

“I actually came to apologise,” Mor swung her plait of gold hair over her shoulder. “I made a promise to try and make things right,” she said solemnly.

Nesta bit down on her tongue. The words she wanted to say were bitter and she knew the taste they would leave in her mouth. Nothing good would come of holding onto the anger she felt for her. Instead, she pinched the toe of Mor’s filthy boot and pushed it and it’s counterpart off the table.

“I forgive you,”

“ _That easy_?” Mor asked, seriously. “Not that I’m not grateful…but I honestly wasn’t expecting you to,” she said, adding quietly. “Azriel likely never will,”

And the old Nesta would have taunted her. Would have driven the metaphorical knife into Mor’s chest and twisted. She’d have held onto that pain and that anger till it burned it’s way through her. Till she was an immortal husk, empty of any kind of light or joy.

“I forgave Cassian. And he hurt me far more than you did,” Nesta explained. Mor was never that important. “But I know _his_ reasons,” she added.

Mor swallowed, understanding the question Nesta hadn’t asked.

“Guess I saw too much of myself in you,” she looked sadly at her. “I’ll have you know I wrote the book on sex and alcohol dependency in the face of trauma,” she laughed, attempting to appear aloof. “I know what its like; the need to drown everything out. Could barely stand in the same room as a male for two years after. Nearly ten before I could do it alone,” she admitted glancing down.

“I think you just reminded me how much I hated myself,” Mor finally said.

And Nesta realised exactly how much they actually had in common. She reached out and touched Mor’s hand as it rested on the arm of the chair. The blonds eyes drifting to Nesta’s scar; a reminder.

“We’ll probably never be friends, but I _don’t_ hate you,” _Don’t hate yourself._ Mor went to stand and Nesta wrapped her fingers round her mechanical fingers tightly. “I’m… _sorry_ about your father,” she added.

And a dark smile broke Mor’s face.

“So was he,”

She watched Mor leave and swung her feet to the floor just as Tepia arrived with a tray of food. It made Nesta’s mouth water; Cassian’s taste buds were less varied. Tepia knew the importance of flavors and had assembled a tray of vegetables and fruits, fresh bread. Nesta looked at her, an eyebrow raised. “The Fae that left, you really made her prepare these?” Nesta asked. “You know she’s Velaris’ city administrator, correct?” and the female smirked knowingly at her.

“Not anymore, she isn’t. She’s warden of the Court of Nightmares,” the female said assuredly. “The High Lord had his thrones moved to Velaris,”

Nesta speared a potato and examined it carefully before eating. Peeled by the warden of the Court of Nightmares.

—————–

When Cassian finally returned several days had passed and Nesta had finally begun venturing outside where a newer brighter world had sprung up from the ashes of the old one. A place with trade and coin. One with some semblance of law. Mara had seen him land at the end of the path and given Nesta about thirty seconds notice to fix her hair. She’d been reluctantly learning to bake and had had just enough instruction to know that bread baking was back breaking hard labour, and had the males been doing this, they wouldn’t have so readily looked down on the females as weak.

Hair hastily repinned and sleeves rolled down, Nesta met him at the door. His hair had been tied back with a single braid running down his skull. The bound end peeking around over his shoulder. Nesta gave it a playful tug.

“Masha thought it would be amusing, but it’s actually grown on me,” Cassian fingered a few flour covered strands of Nesta’s own. “Have you been _baking_?”

“She has not. Not even close,” Tepia called from the kitchen. “This is _not_ food,”

“Baking doesn’t seem to be an Archeron skill,” Nesta growled out, her face stern.

Cassian didn’t let her finish, tilting her head up and kissing her softly.

“We need to talk,”

He led her to the front room to the cold fire and absently Cassian lit it with a gesture of his hand. The bundle he carried he set down in the middle of the table and Nesta took a seat while he unwrapped it. The crown. On instinct she reached out to it but better sense stopped her and she pulled her hands back.

“You can touch it, it’s okay,”

Nesta set her fingers against the gold and felt the power hum. It was the same. The fires of their Holy city. She looked at the tattoo on his brow and saw their match on the inside of the crown.

“You wore it?” He just nodded and Nesta’s brow pinched in confusion. “What does that mean?”

Cassian sat back and rubbed a hand over his tired face.

“They’re apparently trying to crown me King or something,” he laughed nervously.

Nesta blanched sitting up straight, “Have you… _accepted_?”

“Not yet, but the voices are growing,” he heaved a sigh. “I’ve honestly no idea how to run anything but a battle plan,” Cassian snorted, and then he offered her his outstretched hand. “Running Kingdom’s are what Queen’s are for,”

Nesta was momentarily rendered speechless.

“Was that your _twisted_ idea of a marriage proposal?”

Nesta stood from the opposite couch and stepped forward setting her hands on her hips.

“Yes, and I’m desperately hoping you agree because I’ve spent close to a week trying to convince half the steppes I’m not leadership material and you know something,they’re still erecting tents for the ceremony,” Cassian bit out. “I’m _screwed_ ,”

Nesta brushed a thumb across his brow. They weren’t tattoos, so much as the marks of the crown seared into his head. Branded into his flesh. She sat in his lap and kissed him.

“What do I have to do?” Nesta breathed against his lips.

It came as no surprise to Nesta that everyone already seemed to know. Mara had been crafting a gown in secret. Tepia had been receiving and subsequently hiding the gifts that had begin arriving since before Nesta had handed.

There was a room of them. Boxes small and large. She checked every tag. Gifts for her from Feyre, and Azriel. A huge box from Mor that Nesta was suddenly nervous about opening. And a tiny, tiny box from Elain. It stood out for her. Since all the others were addressed to them both, it just had her name, written across it in Elain’s recognisable swirls. Nesta took it up in the palm of her hand and clutched it tightly. For all the gifts that had been sent. Nothing here was from the High Lord. His name was on nothing. His handwriting had marked none of it. A fit of anger hit her and Nesta tore the wrapping off the small box in her hand. Elain’s gift sitting open in her palm. She paused, her heart hammering. And slowly, a smile pulled at her lips.

———————-

It took place out in the open plains beneath the ruins of the old city. Huge tents had been erected filled with wine and food and music. To Nesta’s surprise even some High Lord’s were in attendance. Helion for one. And to Nesta’s great shock, Tamlin of the Spring court. She pulled back the corner of the tarp to see them all come to take their places. Varian of the Summer Court accompanied Amren, while a High Fae with black hair and obsidian eyes hung off Mor’s golden arm. Their dresses woven in the same style but from black and gold material respectively Mor’s golden limb worn like jewelry. Nesta’s gown was made of velvet; a high collared dress of burgundy and gold thread, with sleeves that slipped past her wrists. A garment so heavy it took two people to carry. It was beautiful. And Nesta felt undeserving of it. So many Illyrian’s arrived their wings cast the plains in shadow; beating a thunder in her chest.

What truly stopped Nesta’s heart was seeing her younger sister Elain arrive in Azriel’s arms, wearing a dress of pink chiffon and adorned in flowers. Saw the way her hands lingered on his scarred fingers after they landed. The smile they shared. The smile Nesta now knew all too well. She narrowed her eyes, wondering if Cassian knew, or like his own coronation, had selectively failed to tell her.

Of all the people who came that Nesta didn’t expect, there was one that she’d expected that didn’t arrive. Feyre arrived alone. Winnowing in unaccompanied in a backless gown of darkest blue. The High Lady, there to give the blessing of the Night Court. There had been whispers of Rhysand’s anger over the split of his territory but Nesta didn’t dare believe the rift had gone as far as to keep him from his brother on a day this important. But Feyre was there looking lonely.

When the time came, Nesta stepped outside only to be immediately flanked by an honor guard. But she saw nothing of it. Only Cassian standing at the end of the corridor of wings and swords. A high collar of burgundy, rimmed with gold thread to match her dress. His wings painted with glyphs in gold and black.

It was surreal. She remembered little beyond the curve of his lips. The glistening in his eyes as he took her hand and the ascended the platform that had been erected. She repeated the words where instructed by the guardians presiding over the ceremony, and when it came time to crown him, it was Nesta that had to lift it. The only one who could touch it beyond Cassian. It hadn’t so much been vanity or possession that had seen him guard it so closely, it was dangerous.

Nesta raised it high and he dropped to one knee where she set it on his head. There was a feeling of heat through her fingers and her breath left her lungs as fire spread out, down from the crown and across his wings. There were murmurs and exclamations from the crowd at the sight of him burning like a demon of fire. But Cassian’s eyes had never left hers, and as Nesta stared up into his face he reached to his burning crown and from it, he detached a smaller band. The black stones separating from the red. Nesta barely stayed upright as he set it on her head; a crippling weight for something so slight, but she grit her teeth as it burned through her legs, and straightened turning to face the crowd. To all those who would have thought her crushed by it. As the fire faded from his wings Cassian took her hand and they began the slow walk through the gathered crowds. Nesta’s legs like jelly with the sight of so many eyes on her. But ahe pinched his hand playfully. She hadn’t seen him in days.

“Were you going to tell me Azriel and Elain were having sex?” She kept her face impassive but Cassian visibly faltered a step.

“Azriel and Elain are _what_?” He hissed. She saw his eyes scanning the crowd for them. And sure enough they were sitting beside each other, hands intertwined. “I didn’t know, I _swear_ ,”

“And _who_ convinced Tamlin that he needed to come?” Nesta snarled.

“ _Elain_ ,” Cassian hissed. “But you missed Masha emptying wine over him when he thought she was a servant. It was pretty hilarious,” Cassian thought for a moment. “She does that a lot, you know, _Elain_. It was her idea to send you to Illyria,” he rasped, trying to keep his face neutral and his voice low.

Nesta’s mind spun to a halt when she realized just how many occurrences Elain had both directly and indirectly had a hand in. Azriel and Mor, her and Cassian. Nesta’s hand went to her neck as she swallowed. Realising just what actual power was. The power of a Cauldron blessed seer. The real hand shaping Prythian like a garden. Pulling up the weeds.

At the end of the precession, Cassian and Nesta winnowed, leaving the guests to the celebration behind them that would likely stretch on for days. Nesta blinked and found herself standing with him on the balcony of Calcarum. Apparently rebuilt. The mountain slumbering once more.

“What are we doing here?” She’d expected to be whisked away. Under her clothes there was a tingling creeping along her skin. The tattoo she could feel appearing beneath the fabric of her dress, across her stomach. The oath she had taken to Illyria. She wondered what shape they would take. What his would look like.

“Feyre said there was something she wanted to show us,” Cassian said looking around. The balcony had crumbled the last either of them had seen. But it was here looking as though it had never fallen.

Nesta followed Cassian through the rebuilt gates. This time their way had been lit with glistening lights, glowing along the rock, guiding them through the darkness.

On the other side it wasn’t Feyre that they found waiting for them. It was Rhysand. Sweaty and dirty in just a shirt, his jacket hanging over a post. But beyond him there were dozens of High Fae finishing up their work, clearing the city of their tools and work benches. Carpenter’s, masons, smiths.

The _ruins_ , they weren’t ruins anymore. The buildings, the arches, the temple. They’d all been rebuilt. With the wards down Fae had been winnowing back and forth for weeks. Working in secret.

“You _prick_!” Cassian said, his mouth hanging open. Taking in the city. “Here I was checking my closet for assassins?” He levelled a finger at him, “Have you any idea how little sleep I’ve had?”

Rhysand laughed, stepping forward and pulling Cassian into his arms. “I wasn’t _that_ angry,”

“You exiled me,” Cassian said flatly.

“Yes, and you … _told_ me to fuck off,”

“Cause _that’s_ a rational response,” Cassian glared at him, though there was no heat in the look.

“I was dealing with a lot and it hit me out of the blue that I was losing a brother,”

“You are so full of bullshit,” Cassian laughed and Nesta cleared her throat. Rhysand straightened.

“Sorry, I missed the ceremony,” He put a hand in his pocket, “They’re all so _boring,_ and I’d a few things to finish up here, but ….this is my gift to you,” he smiled, bowing and grabbed the collar of his jacket, throwing it over one shoulder. It was the same colour as Feyre’s dress. “My ancestors destroyed it, seems fitting that I rectify that,”

He stepped to Nesta and bowed curtly, before looking back to Cassian.

“Take care of my mother’s people,” he said to him, disappearing with the wind.

————————-

Nesta and Cassian wandered the gardens for most of the day. Statues in the likeness of the destroyed originals had been made and stood in the grass and along the paths leading to the temple. Illyrian’s wielding spears and playing instruments. Wings spread in flight. In the gardens hidden by shrubs and long grass they found that a large tent had been put up for them, decorated with furs and furniture. A long couch and carpet. There was food and water and wine laid out for them.

The city was empty and they were alone. And it was Cassian’s eyes that Nesta felt burning on her back as she entered the tent ahead of him slipping off her shoes at the door, Cassian doing the same. She turned and saw him pull the crown from his head and toss it to the side.

He smiled; stepping up to her and running his palms down her arms.

“A crown suits you,” he whispered and Nesta whipped the black stoned band from her hair and cast it with his.

He leaned in to kiss her and paused, brushing his thumb along her forehead, at the hairline where her own crown had sat there were three dark stars now showing. Like freckles on her brow.

She’d expected him to reach for the laces on her dress, but instead he twined his fingers in her hair and began pulling out the pins. One by one. Nesta had lost count with how many they’d put in to hold her hair up but Cassian took his time. Delicately freeing each individual lock until it fell down around her shoulders like a curtain. She traced the buttons on the front of his shirt jacket. Popping them slowly; letting his jacket open. She slid her hands up his bare chest and she felt the rumbling of a growl build in her chest. Desire rearing it’s head at the sight and smell of him. On his chest a new pattern emerged. A tree of vines growing up his abdomen, twisting between his own tattoos and out across his arms. Nesta touched the skin on his stomach with light fingertips, tracing the new tattoo up his body, trying to decipher its meaning, reveling in the way Cassian closed his eyes. She followed the seam of the jacket along his shoulders and slipped it off. He closed his eyes, shuddering at her touch.

And finally Cassian set his hands on her waist and pulled the laces at her back free and Nesta let out a breath of air with the heady rush of it. He ran his hands softly along her shoulders slipping the dress off her….and _froze._

And she knew the instant he’d seen it, the sharp intake of breath at his mothers pendant that had hung at her throat under the collar of her dress for the ceremony and from the day Elain had sent it to her. Cassian touched it with reverence. He barely glanced at the tattoo, the matching vines spiralling up her chest and out onto her arms.

“I threw this in the Sidre,”

“Yes, well my sister Elain is apparently terrifyingly powerful, and you should _definitely_ warn your brothers,”

And Cassian laughed, reaching down to kiss her, winding his fingers through her hair. His tongue grazing her lips and skimming the edge of her teeth as she opened her mouth to meet him, sighing into it. Her heartbeat sped up and she felt her skin flush as he ran his palms down her bare back. Nesta was light-headed with want by the time he pulled her against him; she whimpered into his mouth when her bare chest met his. She hadn’t had sex in a long time but Nesta had never recalled a sensation like it. Like she’d swallowed lightning and it was coarsing beneath her skin. Cassian picked her up and carried her across the tent, setting her down in the pile of furs. He drew back to look at her as she lay there, tracing the tattoo with his eyes before leaning over her and following it with his lips and then his tongue. He stopped at the scar just below her ribs, the mark now covered in thick black vines. He pressed a kiss to it. Trailing fingertips down along her sides. Down the outside of her thighs.

“Do you plan on spending the rest of the day teasing me?” Nesta sat up on her elbows to look at him. Males were supposed to be ravenous during mating. Aggressive. Possessive. This was none of that.

“I’m taking my time,” He smirked. “ _Not_ teasing you,”

A kiss on the inside of her thigh silenced her and Cassian slipped her underwear down. She watched him tense, before slowly dragging a tongue up through her center, circling a moment and pulling away.

“ _Now_ , I’m teasing you,”

He shed the rest of his clothes and lay down beside her pulling Nesta against him, hooking her leg over his hip. She felt his breath on her throat, the scrape of his teeth on her skin. Nesta rolled her hips against his, feeling him brush against her sex. The breath on her skin became a ragged moan. His self control was straining, she could feel it. Already it had delved into preternatural levels.

“I won’t break,” Nesta hissed into his ear and Cassian lost what was left of himself. Nesta gasped as he filled her and with her in his arms he started a grueling pace. She felt it. Felt the bond between them in a way she’d never imagined possible. his insecurities - there were so, so many. His joy, his despair, it was all hers.

His _pleasure_. The first toe curling orgasm hit her unexpectedly and Nesta cried out, clutching at his arms. Cassian merely growling softly against her lips; rolling over, setting between her legs. driving her to the edge of two more. His motion never faltered as he covered one of her breasts with his mouth and bit down ever so lightly. Nesta screamed her end, feeling him follow

He lifted his head from her chest and smirked up at her, his hair plastered to his head and his breathing uneven. “Again?” He asked and Nesta cocked a single eyebrow at him, pushing him to the side.

He tucked in his wings and rolled onto his back, spreading them out beneath him. Nesta straddled his waist, filled with a sudden insatiable need to continue.

The Kingdom would need to run itself for a while.


End file.
